


When in Danger--go to Hale

by EmilysRose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, F/F, F/M, Hunters own the government, Light BDSM, M/M, Multi, Recreational Drug Use, Spark!Stiles, True Mates, post apocalyptic, psychedelics, werewolf Stiles, werewolves are a thing, werewolves are just tryin' to have fun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2018-12-12 08:28:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11733360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilysRose/pseuds/EmilysRose
Summary: Stiles realizes things will change as his best friend becomes a werewolf. Living in a post-apocalyptic world where anything supernatural is hunted down viciously, Stiles realizes exactly how much things are going to change as he takes his best friend and all of the werewolves that have transitioned across multiple boarders to the one territory where werewolves are safe. What he doesn't expect to change is himself--and he sure as hell doesn't expect Derek HaleorStiles smuggles his best friends out of the country to save their lives and is rewarded with his own true mate, Derek Hale.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Present](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7946893) by [reillyblack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reillyblack/pseuds/reillyblack). 



> A new story, because the old ones are kicking my ass. I read Present and I just couldn't get the story out of my head, sooo--sorry? >.<''

If Stiles could describe himself in one word, that word would be obsessive. Or maybe dashingly good looking. Or spastic. He was also a little--or a lot--into being seen as a hero. Not the hero people deserves, but the one they need. He's self deprecating and guilty and fragile and sarcastic, too. Mostly, though, he obsessive. Going into crazy spirals of information and actions that he wishes he could blame all his ADHD on. For three entire months he wore the same jock strap, cleaning it every night after he glorified in how amazing it was to jack off with it on. Pushing down the front, it would cradle his balls  _just_ right, and it was easy access to his asshole. Three fucking months of that shit--and he still wears it when the wank-bank fantasies start to get a little dull.

For a really long time werewolves were his obsession. He'd scowered the Dark Web for everything he could on them, which, admittedly, wasn't anything at all. Werewolves were famous for being totally secretive. Everything worth knowing, like pack relations, mating runs, sexual preferences, shifting experiences, and senses were nowhere to be found. In fact, the only thing he'd ever found that came directly from a werewolf source was a single blog entry on a website he'd never managed to find a second time, and it had only said  _If you transition--come to Hale._ That's all. Everything else was from second hand sources totally biased to the Hunter paradigm. Shit like 'how to take down a werewolf 101' and '10 unknown facts to see if your significant other has transitioned'. Some of the gorier, scarier shit. Like an article published in Hunter Weekly that showed the entire gallery of Gerard Argent's Hunting Collection, head after head of killed and stuffed werewolf heads, some in human form, some in what was called 'beta' form, and in the center, the creme-dela-creme, an actual wolf head. It had sickened Stiles, but he'd kept searching. Found Hunter reports on how much pain a werewolf could take, how much electricity, the formula for wolfsbane to BMI ratio, what to aim to kill and aim to maim, what killed their sense of smell so they couldn't find who was hunting them and just about everything in between. Honestly the only thing remotely helpful was the transition statistics. Every year at least 20 random people have been reported transitioning into a werewolf a year. Sometimes all at once, sometimes in random clusters, sometimes more, sometimes less.

He still searched, nearly once a week, but it never amounted to anything more than what he already knew. It was dangerous information to look up, something that could get him killed--but he still searched.

He'd never actually thought any of his research would amount to anything.

He watched Scott poke at the controller with his newly clawed hands, scratching the rubber on the stick. His eyes--bright, reflective yellow--were staring at the TV with a half lidded gaze. Scott looked high. He looked monstrous. His forehead was new, more like a Klingon that anyone had a right to look, with new heavy facial hair. It used to be that Scott couldn't even grow more than a pencil line of hair around his jaw and a small, rapey looking mustache--now he had a full mountain beard, which was slowly growing and curling around his face. The thickness of it almost hid his new fangs, but they were so big Scott couldn't even close his mouth.

"Shilehs?" Scott lisped. He looked over at Stiles, his right eye blinking slower than his left. "I fheelhe funshy."

It took Stiles a moment to speak. He died on screen--zombie attack--and watched as he respawned in his bed. "Ye-ah, buddy. I get that." He managed, his throat clicking. "I feel it to, bud. Me too." All he could think was  _oh fuck-oh fuck everything is going to change now_. It kept circling in his head, probably the most unhelpful, obvious thing he'd ever thought of in his entire life.

What did he even do now? He knew it was a damn good thing they lived in Beacon Territory, where the laws on Hunting weren't as tyrannical as Palcone. There was a chance, here, for Stiles to smuggle Scott out of Beacon and into Hale before he was found and killed. In Palcone, there was a ward on every block and every house, every street corner, every building. A supernatural--a  _werewolf_ \--couldn't step two paces without being found within twenty minutes and executed on spot. Stiles had read all the reports from Palcone he could. Their system was based on white hedge magic, using the found witches and sparks it trapped to keep it up. The camps they held the magic-users at were horrifying. He hadn't even managed to read one without raging at his dad about social injustice, negligence, torture, and the unfairness of a supernatural-hating world between paragraphs. 

Beacon had apparently thought the same thing--only for different reasons. They didn't want a system that allowed the magic users who popped up in their boarders to  _live_ , even a shitty life, so they refused to adopt the system. Instead they used video cameras, blood collection and testing, and 'constant vigilance!'. Propaganda on the evils of supernatural creatures and the birth rights of all humans was in every commercial, every scholastic material. Instead of using the witches, Beacon's greatest weapons were their own people. Anyone and everyone would turn in a werewolf, just for the glory of tipping off the Hunters they themselves wanted to be. And maybe for the month free electricity bonus ypu got for reporting a solid lead. But it was all good. Because they had a chance here.

That blog entry. It had said  _get to Hale._

Stiles was killed on screen again. And again. And again. Apparently the safe house wasnt much of a safe house anymore. Zombies flooded in by the hoard.

How far was Hale Territory? Nearly 6000 miles. At least. What did Stiles know? Scott-Scott needed to go. He knew that. He also knew that Scott would probably not go easily and quietly. He'd have to tell Melissa, and even though Melissa would never turn in her own son, he knew she'd freak out for a while. Maybe do something that would hurt any plan of escape, just for her own damaged moral compass. And it wouldn't just be Scott that would have to leave Beacon, either. When one werewolf transitions, others do too. Usually close friends and family. Stiles was safe from transitioning, his magic made it impossible, but all their other friends were a betting game. He'd have to get them out too. And Lydia, since it was as unsafe for her here as it was for Stiles. Would the Hales take a Banshee?

So much fucking change. So much to plan. Facts filtered through his head, unhelpful but somehow powerful--the only thing keeping him from a nervous breakdown as he watched his best friend's heavy, uneven blinking. 

The transition into a werewolf is believed to be a combination of environment, epigentics, and hormones. It was almost always random--you couldn't detect anything before the transition occurs, though the Hunters had damn well tried through numerous programs to see if it was detectable. They used to think there was a gene that marked it, back when the Culling was so popular, but after killing nearly 3 million people and realizing that they had 12 million more to go, they finally stopped. Everyone not already designated at a supernatural creature had the possibility of transitioning. It was an evolutionary fact, a next step in the line of humanity. The transitions themselves always happened in groups of two to ten. One in every one-hundred thousanth person transitions. Usually about 20 people a year in any territory transition, but it had been about fifty years since anyone in Beacon had been found. Usually a group of newly transitioned werewolves are found to be teenagers, something about puberty kick starting the gene. The last group had been four teenagers from the swim team in Hawthorn Village. The same day they'd transitioned--in the middle of a swim meet--they were dead and so was their families--

No. Don't think that.

Theories existed in some of the deeper parts of the Dark Web about why people transitioned at all. Hunter websites theorized that the gene to present lycanthrope was in more people than those who actually transitioned. It lay dormant until the right age or the right time. Once the environment was good for 'breeding' the gene pushed its way out into someone close to them, then another, then another, spreading like a virus to allow more werewolves to come about and grow strong to 'destroy the paradigm of humanity'. It was their excuse for the mass Cullings generations back, genocide for anyone who could possibly change. It was also their reason for 'sociological control', claiming that if they prevented the kind of environment a werewolf needs to thrive, then the changes of transitioning was minimal. Arranged marriages, needing government approval for friendships, signed government documents to allow someone to go out to bowling or go to the movies, or be in a sports team, or have a date in a diner was considered a necessary control to prevent the spread.

He liked the theory he'd gotten from a Mage site the most; that hormones that lay dormant in one who  _could_ transition found others who emitted the same hormones on a subconscious level. When one changed, the other's felt the environment was safe enough, their pack bonds strong enough, that their suppressed hormones could come to the surface.

There wasn't much about actual lycanthrope-theories. Just ones he'd pieces together from historical politics and common sense. He felt that newly transitioned werewolves like--like Scott would grow insanely aggressive if they felt like they were being hunted down and had no one to support them. Before the Hunters had started their Martial Law, before the different national governments had all been taken down by war and supernatural catastrophe, the Hunter Party had proclaimed werewolves as the number one problem in the world. Stiles had seen a few of the claims, read a few statements and speeches that had been presented before the 'apocalypse' that showed evidence of werewolf aggression. Most of the cases though were from newly transitioned wolves who were running in fear, or being hunted, and were always alone. Those cases had had a lot of body counts. It had boosted the Hunter Party into the reign of supernatural hatred. But Stiles was pretty sure those cases were isolated because the werewolf was isolated. Maybe teenagers transitioned in clusters because they protected each other from crazy shit like trying to rip out sometimes throat. They balanced each other out with the very hormones that drew them together, changed them.

He was pretty sure it was why the Hale Territory was even allowed to exist in the first place. As Territories started to establish themselves it seemed all ready to gear up and kill all the werewolves hiding up in the Forrest up North. But they didn't. Instead there was only a peace-treaty claiming that a Hale 'wolf could never enter any other Territory. After all, werewolves would never stop transitioning randomly within human society, no matter what laws they passed to keep people from each other or to selectively breed. At least this way they had a place to go, a goal in mind, so their first thought wouldn't be about taking as many people down with them as they could. Hale was hope.

Scott made a strangled noise, bringing Stiles out of his head. It sounded like he had two voice boxes now, one for his normal laugh, another deeper, rougher subvocal. "You-sh gotch y-our tinshin-g f-f-fash on-n." Another laugh. "Fun-nee shoun-dsh."

"Yeah buddy." Stiles said weekly. He'd have to find the others who'd transitioned, but Scott was his first, main, priority. He put down the controller as the round ended. "Let's, uh, let's get you centered, yeah?"

"Cwenthered?"

Stiles nodded. He'd gotten his magic from his mom, and she'd always talked about centering as the key to repression and control. Obviously Stiles's magic was nothing like Scott's new werewolfdom, but many centering him could calm him enough to switch back so Stiles could think about something other than his wrinkly ass forehead. He grabbed Scott, going for a bro-hug, but Scott moved in deeper. He shoved his new hairy face into Stile's neck, so Stiles could feel hot breathe and the light scrape of fangs. He repressed a shiver, soothing his brother's back, making soft humming noises that Scott immediately mimicked with his new voice box. The sound of it shook at Stile's rib cage, like he was standing next to a speaker at a concert. He kept up with the humming though, breathing in deep, exhaling loudly. Eventually the skin on Scott's forehead smoothed out, his ears lowered, his fangs receded. Only the bushy beard remained, and the claws. Both heavy warning signs of being a werewolf and a social taboo for as long as Stiles had been alive. 

He kept humming, and Scott kept up with his sub vocal replies--until those sub vocal replies turned into deep, strong snores.

Stiles kept rubbing his back. Kept his brother's face in the crook of his neck.

He was pretty sure they were fucked.

 

 


	2. Chapter Two

"All right... all right." Noah was pacing back and forth, looking down at his feet. Stiles had only seen his Dad look like this a few times, usually during a huge case. He made sure to keep rubbing Scott's back.

Scott was awake now. Horrified, staring off into space, he said nothing and did nothing but occasionally flex his hands when Noah took a sharp turn to start pacing in the other direction.

"We'll need to find the others." Noah said, still pacing. He turned, and Scott flex his new claws. "Do you have any idea who it could be? I've heard reports that it's always who your closest to, Scott--who do you think would change with you?"

"Umm... Mom." Scott said dully, his voice far away.

"She's too old to transition." Stiles grabbed his phone.

"Stiles, then."

"Stiles won't transition either." Noah said, pacing the other way.

That seemed to snap Scott out of his daze. He looked at Noah, then at Stiles. "Why? You can't be sure--I mean--"

Stiles met his Dad's eye, already knowing the cat was out of the bag and he'd kind of have to tell his best friend about it now. He'd only kept it a secret because Scott's life would be in danger if he'd know--that, and so would Stiles's. He trusted his best friend with his life, he did, but the money? It was a hard thing to pass up in a place like Village Beacon. An entire month of free electricity was a lot for the McCall family. For any family. Over the years he'd known Scott and Melissa even he'd entertained the thought of giving up his identity just so they could have a cushy month to float on in an endlessly tiring life. But now Scott was a werewolf--and what was the point of secrecy? They were both going to go down. He didn't even wait for his dad to reply before he turned back to Scott and said, "I can't change 'cus I'm not human, Scotty. Only humans can become werewolves."

Scott blinked. His eyes turned into the same luminescent golden color. Stiles did  _not_ expect him to say what he said next--but that was Scott, always doing and saying the unexpected. " _I knew it_."

Stiles threw back his head and laughed. At his friends gentle 'what are you' he explained, "A spark, is the official term. It's like... a mage, but unspecialized, I guess. Totally untrained. Like, magic is weird. You have all these different subtexts and definitions on how you connect to your magic and how your magic connects to the earth. Durids--fucking druids, man--they have this--" He watched Scott's face get that fond, blank, 'I'm not paying attention' stare he always got when Stiles went on his rants. "Well, yeah. It basically means that my magic is free, unconnected to the earth in any way. It's only defined and controlled by my own will."

"That's... awesome?" Scott frowned, his eyes still glowing, his new mountain beard filling his entire lower face.

Stiles shrugged, turning to his phone. "Kinda. It's a fickle bitch, but I can't argue that it's awesome. But... Jackson." Stiles went to his contacts list.

Scott shoved his face his close to the screen, his nose wrinkling. "Jackson?"

"Yeah. I mean, your supposed to be drawn to your cluster by hormones--"

"What's a cluster?"

"Honestly, what do they teach you boys in biology class?" Noah muttered, still pacing across the living room.

"Jackson transitioning with you is the only reason I can think of that you'd be friends with a dick like Jackson  _Whittemore_. You guys don't each like each other, but your still friends." As Scott crinkled his nose more, his forehead wrinkled too, just like a wolf's would. His ears were growing a bit longer, and he started to scratched himself with his new long talon like nails.

_Shave your face and come to my house_. Stiles texted, hoping the text was vague enough that the Hunters couldn't immediately pick up on it through their flagging system, but informing enough for Jackson to realize he wasn't alone, if he had transitioned. Which he totally had, because Stiles had a feeling and his feelings were always on point.

He texted Lydia, too, because he knew how bad she wanted to get out of Beacon. She, like Stiles, could hide better than any werewolf, but it was still suffocating to live in a world you know would kill you the second you revealing who you really were.  _Come by ASAP_.

She texted back within seconds.  _I'm busy_.

Stiles blinked, watching Scott's hands flex as Noah turned to pace the other way. Lydia and Jackson dated, realized they were horrible for each other, thanks to Stile’s meddling, but were still good friends. Better friends than they ever could have been as lovers. Something about them together when they got sex involved made Lydia into a raging, controlling bitch and Jackson into a lashing out asshole. But she would be the first person he called if shit went down, if she hadn’t already been with him when it happened. He took a chance. _Jack freaking out? Get him to calm down. Shave his face and come here with him._

The reply took a bit longer this time. _K_ , was all she sent back.

 “Who else, who else.” Stiles bobbed his leg up and down. “Danny? No—he was never close.” Best friends with Lydia, he hung out with Jackson on occasion, helped Stiles when he desperately asked for it, but was aloof.

“Liam and Hayden.” Scott said.

Stile’s neck hurt from how quickly he looked over at Scott. “You sure, bro?”

Scott had that faraway look on his face again. “Yeah. Positive.”

They were younger than the average transition, only freshman. Either way, Stile’s trusted his brother’s word. He texted them both in turn, telling them to come over with the same cryptic message, only slightly altered for Hayden. At least he was pretty sure she wouldn't grow a beard. “Anyone else?”

Scott shook his head.

 

Stiles nodded, put his phone off to the side and watched his dad pace. “We’ll need to get survival gear set up, get a plan in place. I can take time off work to drive you all to Hale, but I don’t know what excuse I’m going to give the border patrol and how I’m going to explain five random teenagers.” Scott looked away from his claws. “Or how I’ll explain it when were the only ones who come back.”

“Or how were going to keep them out of sight till we get out. What their parents will do.”

“Wait—what?” Scott asked.

“Shit, their parents might turn them in.” Noah ran his hand over his face, heaving. “It’ll have to be soon, before the weekend is up. Being in school would expose them more than—”

“I’m nwot weaving.” Scott said.

Both Stiles and his dad looked over, to see Scott’s scared, angry face, plus fangs. “I can’th just weave! My mom wives hereh—and—and you gu-eys. And Awisshon.”

He and his dad both shared another look, then turned back to Scott. “Scotty…”

“No!” Scott stood up, shaking, wolfed out again. His new black beard didn’t grow any longer, but somehow fuller. His ears poked out, the top of his head growing. Even the little body hair Stiles could see on his arms grew thicker, fuller. “No. I’m nwot weaving.”

“You’ll die bro.”

“No!” Scott screamed. "I whoth!"

“It’s okay, hey, it’s okay.” Noah walked over, hands up, placating. “Let’s drop this for now, wait for everyone to show up. We’ll talk it through then, all right? No need to jump to any conclusions. Just calm down.”

Scott was breathing heavy, chest heaving. There were tears in his new glowing eyes. “Y-yeah.” He threw himself down, burying his face in Stile’s neck again, taking in deep, gulping breathes. “M’scwared.”

Staying in Beacon was not an option. Scott would go mad, start to kill. The others, if they all decided to be suicidal enough to stay, might support him, but they were all untrained and in hostile territory. The only reason Stiles and Lydia had survived so long was because there was no physical signs of their inhumanity, because they hadn’t even tapped into what they were. Scott’s lycanthropy was literally his identity now, while Stiles magic and Lydia ability to sense death was more like an undeveloped talent.

But Scott transitioning would change that. Stiles couldn't come back. Beacon wasn't safe, not for a werewolf sympathizer. No living with dad, happy and carefree and bottling up his desires and hatred. The roaming witch lands was where he belonged now, the only place safe for him. Alone, surrounded by new witches, and... alone.

The Hunters were always more lenient with the other supernatural creatures than they were the werewolves. The very existence of a supernatural adjacent to their own genetics, but stronger than them in every way, seemed to terrify them. Stiles had read all he could on it, but he’d never really understood how La Bête du Gévaudan, the first werewolf to ever transition, had anything to do with the present day. Over thousands of years, and the Hunters still held a grudge. Maybe it was because Gévaudan had been the creature that had sparked their movement into creation. The brother of the first Hunter ever—a killer of a killer.

Without their bias, without their blind hatred for the lycanthrope species—it was easy to see that it wasn’t ‘wolves that were the biggest threat, but magic-users. It had been threat of magic that had started to unravel the peace-treaties between old nations like Japan and Germany and Russia and Great Brittan. Once the fighting was all around the world, it had been that same threat of magic that had caused the leaders of the world to release the only thing they’d sworn to never release, a nuclear bomb. Millions, dead. Saved by magic-users and the few supernatural creatures not affected by the nuclear waste, mostly. After the war, the world seemed over, and the Hunting party came about screaming for the blood of werewolves. After a hundred years of fighting things settled into what they were today. Divided human territories and divided supernatural territories. Agathe existed on an island separate from Hale, but still under the domain of 'separate and peaceful'. As soon as Stiles left with Scott, it would be the only place he belonged.

To him, Agathe had always seemed like a back up plan. A kind of  _in-case-of-emergency_  plan, to use only once his life had fallen apart. 

He watched his dad pace and rubbed Scott's back till he shifted back into a hairy, clawed human-looking guy again. His father stayed tense, stayed moving. If Noah went with them, he was as good as dead. There were places for werewolves and witches, but there was no place for a supernatural sympathizer.

They stayed tense, nobody talking until Liam showed up pounding on the door until Noah let him in, he was shaking, crying, hairier than Stiles had ever seen him. His eyes glowed a faint yellow. “What’s going on? Oh-oh-my-g-god.” He was staring at Scott, who’d stood up the second Liam was at the door. They just stared at one another, glowing eye to glowing eye.

“Did anyone see you?” Noah asked. “Son?”

But Liam wasn’t hearing it. Within the same instance, both Scott and Liam were flying at each other, faster than Stiles could track. They embraced one another, faces buried in each other’s necks, just breathing and shaking.

Stiles stood. He knocked his head back towards the kitchen, and his dad slowly followed, keeping an eye on the two. “Do you think?” Stiles asked.

“Who knows. Surveillance has always been slack around this neighborhood. He obviously wasn’t out in the open or he’d be caught already…” Noah sighed, buried his face in his hands. “Kid…”

“Yeah.” Stiles breathed, watching his best friend cry into Liam’s neck. “Things are gunna be different.”

“An understatement.” Noah looked up. “It’s not our responsi—”

“Don’t even say that.” Stiles said, voice harsh. “Scott is my brother, Dad. You practically raised him.”

Noah threw his chin up, threw his shoulders back. _Don’t give me that tone,_ he said, wordless. “I know that, Stiles. But if we do this, there’s no turning back. Our lives here will be over. We’ll be hunted.”

Stiles looked away, not knowing how to voice his conflicting emotions. He leaned against the counter, crossed his arms, and glared at his feet. “You shouldn't go.”

“What?”

“You shouldn't go. You shouldn’t be a part of the escape.” Stiles looked up at his dad’s face. “I’m a spark—right? I’ll see them off at the border, then go up into Agathe and find a coven or something—”

“I’m not losing you, Stiles.” His dad had steel in his voice.

“And I’m not letting you die.” Stiles said, voice just as strong. “Think about it, if we both drop them off, we’ll both be on the run. We’ll get hunted eventually. There’s no escaping their system. But if I just go? It’ll be like… like college. I’ll find a few spells I can use to talk to you long distance, communicate at least, and we’ll both be alive. Me, with witches. You here as Village Hill’s Chief of Police. It'll be a lot less expensive without me around anyway.”

“Or we just get them a plan and let them go on their way.” Noah challenged.

He looked over at Scott and Liam, whose glowing eyes were both looking at Stiles and Noah in the kitchen with unblinking iridescence. It was ominous. But it was also a testament to Liam's presence, that Scott wasn't freaking out like before. “Lydia is smart enough to get them through, yeah, but too much could go wrong. They have three separate Territories to cross before they get to Hale.” He shook his head. “It’s the only way.”

“Son, no, it’s not.” His dad stood in front of him, gripping his shoulders. “It’s just what we’ve come up with so far. We’ll think of something, we always do.” His smile was weak, though, and the laugh lines around his eyes were tense on his well-worn face.

“Dad,” Stiles said, voice needy. “We’ve never faced something like this before. Our plan has always been to hide—we’ll never escape—”

“I’m not leaving.” Scott said, from the living room, voice stubborn.

Stiles and his dad pulled apart.

Liam was looking at Scott, face scrunching up, forehead wrinkling. Like they all had extra skin up there now, or something. “But dude—we’ll die. We’ll hurt someone.”

Scott shook his head, full hair shaking. “No. Not me—” He stopped suddenly. Him and Liam turned, and were at the door before Stiles could do anything. They let Hayden inside without a word.

She didn’t look much different in Stile’s opinion. Her hair was always thick and full and brown, only it hung a little heavier. Her eyebrows looked a little wild too, and her nails looked like talons, but otherwise she looked human. She embraced Scott and Liam in a sandwiched threesome in entry hall, the door closed. The sniffing and crying continued.

Stiles looked at his dad, and there was something sad and broken about their shared look.

"One more to go." He said, trying to smile.


	3. Chapter Three

Lydia and Jackson arrived a half hour later. Jackson looked the same. His hair was normal, his face was clean, his nails were clipped. Stiles would have thought he hadn’t actually transitioned if it wasn’t for his eyes glowing a bright blue—blue?—and rushing the others, who all hugged and did their sniffing. There was no crying this time though, but growls and sub vocal snarls as they shoved at each other, until finding comfortable places to hug.

Lydia, also as immaculate as ever, walked in. She flicked her hair over her shoulders, heels clicking on the hardwood floor. “He almost killed Prada.” She huffed, in greeting. “I officially need a beer.”

He walked with her to the kitchen, grabbing his dad’s whisky and some shot glasses. She looked at him gratefully as he filled both, clinked her glass against his, and threw her head back. “Stiles?” His dad asked, frowning. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then sighed. “Just… drink the cheap shit.”

“No can do, daddy-o.” Stiles said, pouring another shot.

“Carpe diem.” Lydia explained, shooting Noah a look.

Even thought Scott was his life long brother, there was always that secret Stiles couldn't tell him. Lydia, though, he'd told on the spot, able to somehow sense that she was like him, that she had that death-defying secret too. It had bonded them together. They just got each other. He loved her.

“To a close end.” He said, as they clinked glasses. Stiles threw his head back with the shot as Noah sighed and walked away.

Lydia sat at the kitchen table, and Stiles sat with her. “I already reached out to Danny. He’s safe.” Stiles nodded, grabbed a loose coin from his pocket and started to play quarters with her. “Can’t think of anyone else. We have a very closed group of friends.”

Stile snorted. “We?” He teased. “You have more friends in real life than I do on Facebook.” He got the quarter in his shot glass on the fourth try. He drank, handed her the quarter. She got it first try.

“I can hide them easily for a day or two.” She said, handing him back the quarter as she took her shot. “But their real changes are going to be too hard to hide.”

“No school.” He agreed.

“Backpacking outside of the Village Hawthorne should work.” She said, watching him try to get the quarter in. “We’ve done it enough that the roster won’t show anything’s up if we get our timing right.”

“Where will you go?” He asked, thinking about after they dropped off the ‘wolves. She would plan the escape—had been for years. He trusted her to make better choices out of it than he did.

"I have no official territory. I heard Hale let’s in all kinds, though, so if I bond with them…” She trailed off. “Agathe wouldn’t let me in.” She said it softly, grabbing Stile’s hand after another failed attempt to get it into the shot glass. He hadn’t realized how bad he was shaking until her soft, warm hand was on his. Her gaze, though, was hard, and cold, and centered him. “You’re one of the best survivors I know, Stiles.” She said, soothing his nerves. “It will be okay.”

His smile felt sad, his body drained. “Stop lying. Your terrible at it.”

She huffed. “I’m terrible at nothing.” She said, taking back her hand. He got the quarter in the glass—but before he could pour the shot, his Dad grabbed the bottle from them. He put it up with a silent glare, then walked away.

“He won’t handle it well.” She said, watching Noah walk away. “But Mellissa will help him. He won't be alone.”

Stiles huffed. Of course she’d already made the mental leap that Stile’s was leaving his dad here. “He’ll be safer. So will I.” Her nod was slow.

“So, Prada.” She put her chin on her hand. “Jackson suddenly freaked out on me—started eating my pillow for some reason.” Her eye roll was legendary. “Tried to get him to calm down, but he kept yelling, saying ‘so damn loud’. Before I could stop him he stormed out and ran after Prada, who was barking in the yard. I hadn’t even heard her. She barley managed to escape when I hit him over the head.”

“Ooohhh.” Stiles laughed, feeling the drinks hit him. “Baseball bat? Frying pan? What?”

She grinned. “With _Infinite Jest_.” Stiles threw back his head, laughing till he cried. By the time he was done, the new ‘wolves had all come shuffling in. Scott snarled as Jackson reached out, rubbing his hand through Stile’s hair. Liam and Hayden were both shuffling awkwardly close to Lydia, sniffing her with long, drawn in inhales.

They both ignored them. “Oh—fuck. I needed that laugh.”

“I know.” She said simply, grinning. “Okay, you two. What are you doing?”

“It… smells good.” Liam shrugged.

“Like, it’s calming.” Hayden explained.

When Lydia looked over at Stiles, he felt himself shrug. “Heard their sense of smell is now their main sense—tops everything.”

“Fine. Smell me or whatever and then sit down.” She ordered. They instantly surged on her, one face in each side of her neck. Lydia sat there with a tempered patience, mouth pinched tight, before shooing them down to sit.

Scott was still snarling at Jackson, Jackson still rubbing his hand through Stile’s hair. It actually felt pretty good—guy did a nice a scalp rub—so he turned to Scott, smiled, and said, “C’mon bud, sit down.”

“He’s _touching_ you Stiles.” Scott whined, using his new voice box to literally, actually whine.

Stiles wondered why Scott had such a problem with it. Sure, it was weird. He and Jackson had never gotten along, and usually were at each other’s throats, bickering about anything and everything most days. It seemed like Jackson even purposefully made Stile’s life had some times—but he couldn’t leave the guy hanging. Not after this. With him came Scott, and the entire mess of being a werewolf, and Stiles just couldn’t abandon that because Jackson was a douchebag. Maybe Scott felt like he should—or maybe his new instincts were putting something in play, Stiles just didn’t care. “S’okay.” Stiles shrugged. “You can touch me later dude.”

“There’s an innuendo in there somewhere.” Lydia snapped Hayden’s hand away as Hayden reached for her hair.

Scott sat, and eventually Stiles swatted Jackson’s hand away—getting a snarl in return—before he sat down too. “So. Plan.” Stiles said, going back for the bottle of alcohol his dad had put up. His dad was in the living room, talking softly to Mellissa, probably. She hadn’t been near a phone when they’d called the Hospital earlier.

“Talk to your parents about going camping. Say your goodbyes but don't be obvious about it. No sniffing or doing anything weird. No eyes glowing. We’ll be gone by tomorrow evening—” She gave Scott a sharp glare that instantly silenced his whine. “Then we’ll Territory hop. A direct shot on Highway 9 we’ll take us through Skiral, Palcone, and Agathe.”

“Obviously we’ll be taking backroads, I think 41 is still maintained.”

“Obviously.” Lydia rolled her eyes.

“Why obviously?” Hayden asked, sniffing Liam, who looked both pleased and freaked out by it.

Stiles poured two shots. “Because we can’t go through Palcone. It’s too dangerous. So halfway through Skiral we’ll divert onto a different road, move around Palcone and head to the Militia boarder.” She looked over at Jackson, biting her lip.

“That’s way too dangerous.” Liam said, shaking his head. “It’s totally war torn.”

“Not really.” Stiles handed Lydia her shot, they clinked and drank.

“I want one—”

"Only the grown ups get to drink." Lydia said dismissively.

That started a chain reaction. Hayden snarled at her, which made Jackson snarl back, which made Liam snarl. Scott looked between them, whimpering—and Stiles had to drink. He was already feeling drunk, and he knew that all the shots he’d taken hadn’t really set in, but fuck it, tonight was a night to get trashed. “The Militia boarder is about 100 miles long. Only 20 miles of that is actually war torn.” He said, offering Lydia a glass, but knowing she wouldn’t take it. She was good about knowing her limits. She shook her head, and Stiles took it for her.

“All of the surrounding countries are _very_ good at keeping them at bay.” Lydia explained.

“Good enough to stop the entire war.”

“As if they’d want to give it up.” Lydia challenged.

“The damn military industrial complex crashing would kill our economy.”

“No, it would kill Hunters—”

Stiles made a loud woosh sound, pretending so somehow make a huge mushroom cloud with his hands as he mimicked explosive sounds with his mouth.

Scott sighed. “I remember why I hate being in a room with you two.” He said, looking at the others for help. Liam and Hayden were back to sniffing each other, and Jackson only sneered.

“So, we use the boarder, get across. At night.” Stiles said, when Lydia raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Make sure all of you are well groomed, then go into Hale.”

Stiles took another shot. “So. Lydia will manicure you. Set you up. You shift, you need another makeover.”

“So don’t shift.” Lydia ordered, looking at all of them.

“Don’t even flash your eyes—well, wear sunglasses. Like, do not take them off.”

“My parents will think it’s weird if I don’t take them off.” Hayden muttered.

“I don’t know how to help that. But every time you feel something, they flash. I don’t know if they’re the type to go to Hunters—”

“They’d never give me up!” She snarled, nearly launching herself across the table. Scott, always the good protector, reached up and slammed her back down in her seat before she could rank her claws into Stile’s. Liam snarled in his face and Scott let go. Hayden, though, just kept glaring, her eyes glowing gold. “They would never do anything to hurt me.”

“So you’ll tell them?” Lydia’s voice was menacingly soft. “You’ll let them know what you are now? Why you’re never coming back?” Hayden deflated at that. “It’s a good idea to not let any of your parents know what’s going on. Even if they won’t tell on you,” She raised her hands, when golden eyes turned to glare at her. “It’ll put their life in danger. You’ll be found out when we don’t come back. Your parents will be interrogated. If the Hunters even get a whiff—”

Stiles laughed.

“—that their holding something back, it’ll mean the end for them. And we’ll have that many days less to get to Agathe and avoid roaming Hunters.”

“Stile’s Dad knows.” Liam said, crossing his arms.

“Stile’s dad is highly trained in interrogation.” Stiles said, the drinks getting to him enough that he mimicked Liam’s petulance.

“But he’s probably more in trouble.” Hayden snarled. “I mean, his son will be gone? All his friends? Doesn’t that kind of jeopardize his entire job as Chief of Police? He’ll be fired—he’ll be interrogated more—hunted himself maybe.”

“I can handle myself.” Noah said, coming in. He snapped the alcohol bottle away, glaring at Stiles, who was so drunk he could only smile. “I won’t be fired, but suspended. Everyone knows Stiles is a wild one anyway. He’s been arrested more times than anyone else his age. It won’t seem out of place if he runs away to avoid his charges as an adult.”

“Ah, the joys of juvenile rap-sheets.” Stiles said fondly into the air. “Not that it’ll matter much anymore.” The thought made him laugh, happy that his past wasn’t going to get the chance to catch up to him in any serious way.

“But your on probation. How can you just leave Village Hill?” Jackson asked.

Stiles shrugged. “Easy. Don’t tell my PO and hide in the trunk.” He flashed a smile. “We got it down to a science! I hide in the very back, it’s cramped, but meh, and then you pile as much shit as you can into the trunk. Only Officer Collin ever demands we take the shit out to search it, and he’s soft on Lyds, so he lets is slide.”

“Odds are, this will be the time it fails.” Hayden muttered.

“Am I seriously the only one who thinks it’s stupid to leave?” Scott asked.

“Yes.” Stiles and Jackson said together. Stiles lifted his hand for a high-five, but Jackson only glared. Stiles uncrossed his arms and gave himself a high five.

“Seriously, I have a life here. I can’t just abandon it.” Scott said. “I’m all my mom has. And Noah…”

“I’ll take care of your mom, son.” He clasped Scott on the shoulder. “We’ll watch out for each other.”

“No—No! I just became Lacross Captain—”

“Co-Captain.” Jackson muttered.

“I just got a girlfriend.”

“Who’s also the daughter of the biggest family of Hunters in five human Territories.” Lydia reminds him.

“I can’t just leave!” Scott yelled, eyes glowing, body shifting, he punched the table and it cracked, a huge fist-sized dent in it.

Noah sighed. “I’ll have to get that replaced before they come interrogating.”

“No!” Scott screamed. “No!”

“Dude—” Liam grabbed for him. Scott ducked under his arm, looking to run out the door. Jackson got up quickly, tackling him to the ground, and the others came rushing forward. There were a lot of snarls, and screams, and what looked like flashes of blood from claws—but Stiles quickly looked away. The bottle was half gone, so he poured two more shots. He and Lydia took them before speaking, and by that time, somehow Scott had been knocked out.

“We’ll drug him?” He offered. “By the time he wakes up we’ll have gone through Beacon."

“I’ll make something tonight.” She agreed, nails clicking on the table.


	4. Chapter Four

Stiles woke up in the middle of the night to sharp nails digging into his shoulder and shaking him awake. “W-” He tried to flail, but he was still a little drunk and getting hungover, his limbs not wanting to pay attention. “What?” Too loud, way too loud. He tried to swat the hand away, tried to sit up.

“ _Stiles_.” Lydia’s face was pressed close to his, he couldn’t see anything but her right eye. He blinked at her slowly, some of the panic gone now that he realized it wasn’t a werewolf claw digging into him. _Why would that matter?_ Somehow, though, it did. He nearly leaned back into the cushions.

“If you wanna crawl into bed with me, Lyds, just do it.” He said, sighing past the throbbing pressure in his head. “I mean, might get a bit awkward in the morning…” She wasn’t wearing makeup. He’d never seen her without makeup before, not since seventh grade when her mom had taken her on a Sephora shopping spree. She looked younger, without the thick lipstick and the contouring he sometimes forgot to notice. Her skin was darker, two shades up from seriously-pale, and she had the smallest dusting of freckles on her nose and under her eyes that he’d completely forgotten about.

“Stiles—he’s gone.”

He didn’t even need to ask who was gone. He pushed away the hand still clutching at his shoulder, sitting up fully and feeling the world tilt and pressurize into the sides of his head. He wished he had an advil—and, wish granted. He smiled weakly up at Lydia as she pushed two small red pills into his hand, and threw him the water bottle he always had on his bed side table. He closed his eyes as he noticed her reaching for the bedside lamp, the glow of it harsh on the inside of his eyelids. “Fuck—this is going to suck.” Why did he drink so much? His voice was so _loud_.

He peaked his eyes open, watching as she moved around his room, throwing clothes into a lacrosse bag he rarely ever used. “I’ll call the others,” she said, “It might be better this way…if everything works out.” She was biting her lip. “It’ll just be really difficult, but we’ll make it work.” She sighed suddenly as she threw open his closet. “You have way too much plaid, you know that Stilinski? I thought gay guys were supposed to be fashionable.”

“That stereotype is hurtful.” He threw his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing his forehead into his hands as if that could get his brain to stop hurting. “I mean, just because I like dick doesn’t mean I’m effeminate. It just means I don’t swing towards boobs and vaginas and—”

“It was not meant to be a conversation starter.” She said, throwing him a shirt, then a plaid over shirt. “I’ll get everyone together. Meet me at my car when you grab him, down by East exit.”

“Dad?” Stiles asked, suddenly looking up to see her under the light of his desk lamp. Heavy shadows decorated the room, like a chiaroscuro painting. She looked scared, vulnerable.

“He’s still asleep. I thought it better if…if I woke you up first.” She said, voice low.

Stiles stood, shirts clutched in his hand. He walked up to her and grabbed her, holding her to him. It took her a minute to lift her arms and hug him back, and even then, it was a tiny hug, accompanied by a push. “Don’t worry about anything but Scott. Four hours and we’re gone, Stiles, with or without you. I…I can’t waste this opportunity.”

“Hey, hey.” He reached up and grabbed her face before she could fully turn away, noticing the small tears collecting they’re on her lashes. There was still a bit of mascara there, but not much. He thumbed away the tears before they could leave black marks streaming down her face. “You’ll get out, Lydia. No way are they going to get you like they got Lorraine. I mean, c’mon, you’re too smart for that shit.” His humor fell flat.

Her eyes flashed up at him, no vulnerability there in the cool pools of green. “You know… I always thought we’d make a great couple.” Thrown off guard, he tried to say something, but she talked over him. “I mean, I know you’ve been in love with me for years.” A simple statement said more simply than he could imagine. It kind of tore at his chest, how easily she exposed him like that. “After the Hunter’s got Grandma and she went to Eichen…after all those experiments left her…” When she couldn’t finish she grabbed his hands, her thumbs finding the inside of his wrist and rubbing the skin there. “It would have been so easy to use your support and start something.” He could only nod, not knowing where this was going. When he was little, he’d always hoped that she _would_ start something, that she’d take all the support he gave her and—well in his head he just kissed her randomly. They’d kiss, and they’d be there for each other, and life would go on with the two of them. The same, but more than they ever had been. But she’d never picked that option up, never seemed like she even realized it was there. To learn she’d purposely not chosen him… He tried to take a deep breath in. “But it would have broken you, Stiles. I would have…” She seemed to visibly gulp down her tears. “I couldn’t lose that—couldn’t lose you after everything. So… get your ass to East exit before dawn.”

Stiles let his hands drop. “You won’t lose me. Yet.” He mumbled, staring down at his feet. Eventually, he’d have to leave them. But he’d stay for as long as he damn well could.

Lydia gave a stiff nod, head held high. She grabbed his bag and walked away.

He grabbed the shirts he’d dropped, and a pair of jeans she hadn’t packed away yet. He tried to focus on Scott instead of Lydia, but images kept flashing into his head. Of a younger Lydia, terrified that her grandmother had been exposed by Hunters. The Martin family’s shame. Lydia used to stay over at the Stilinski house rather than listen to her parents fighting and screaming all night long. Before Lorraine Martin had even been taken to Eichen to be experimented on—the Martin’s split up. Jeff Martin ran away to another Village in Beacon, to ashamed of having a supernatural parent to care about his wife and child, while Natalie stayed to pull the pieces together. She’d fought for visitation rights at Eichen when it looked like Lorraine didn’t have much time left, and the Hunters had allowed it, since Natalie’s position as Mayor gave her leeway over the Hunter’s funds. Every week, Lydia went to see her slowly dying grandmother, realizing at any moment, if she slipped up, if she gave into her base nature, she’d end up right there, strapped to a table with a hole in her head, screaming at every death with an uncontrollable frenzy.

He used to hold her ever night as she cried to sleep. Used to calm her down when her nightmares woke her up. Used to distract her when someone died, when the will to scream was so strong she’d have to bite deep crescents into her hands just to stifle the wails.

Clothes on, Stiles looked out his window, into the black street. He couldn’t focus on her right now. Scott—Scott was the one who needed help.

He was pretty sure Scott wouldn’t try to go to the hospital to find his mom. She was working until 6am, and had apparently freaked out when she’d heard he’d transitioned. She’d refused to talk to Scott over the phone until the ninth call to the hospital. Stiles had no idea what they talked about, just that all the other ‘wolves had rushed in to do their touching and hugging and snarling as Scott cried. They’d seemed especially reluctant to leave him to go home to their families, but the pressure of saying goodbye to their own was too strong, so eventually they all trickled out. Scott had stayed on the couch, Lydia the spare, and Stiles had thought it was all going to be all right, if only for the night.

Even though it was literally the most dangerous idea on the table, Scott would be at Allisson’s right now. He might even be dead already.

Feeling the urgency press down on him, Stiles walked out of his room—but stopped at his dad’s. He didn’t knock or try to open it, just pressed his forehead against the wood, trying to think through the booze and the hangover. His dad would argue with him. Precious hours, wasted on trying to explain what was going on and how to deal with it, with tears and arguing. Or, worse, he’d come with. And then where would his dad be? Stiles backed away from the door, not believing he was so cold hearted to do this—but doing it anyway. He turned, walked down the steps.

The hangover was seriously getting to him. No way would he be able to do the running necessary to catch up to Scott and head to the rendezvous, so he walked into the kitchen. The whisky bottle was nearly gone, but there was enough left that when Stiles chugged it, the burn left him feeling sick to his stomach. He retched, grabbing for some orange juice quickly, and realized there was some tin-foil in the back of the freezer behind a bag of pees that his dad never touched. He grabbed it and shoved it into his back pocket, then, fueled by the new sense of maudlin from the booze, he took the time to write his dad a letter. He told him he loved him, that something had come up, and there was no other way, that he was sorry, that he wanted his dad to live a good life. To take care of everyone while he was gone—and most importantly to take care of himself. That Stiles would try his very hardest… only he couldn’t answer what he’d try his hardest with, so he left it open ended. There were so many things he was going to have to fight for, to try his hardest at, it seemed too much to put it all down into words. He let the sentence hang open and signed the bottom of it, putting it up on the fridge under a magnet and turning away.

There were guns in the safe, but Stiles didn’t know the codes to open them. He went for the back door and screamed when a light came on. He threw himself against the wall as he looked over to see his dad sitting on the couch with an unimpressed look on his face. He had a gun in his hand, a large bag by his feet. “You really think I’m that stupid, don’t you?”

“Ah, I mean, um…” Stiles tailed off, tears flooding his eyes. “Dad—no. I’m trying to protect you.”

“It’s not your job to protect me, kid. It’s mine to protect you.” He stood and slung his bag over her shoulder, throwing one arm through each duffle bag loop. Stile’s fumbled with the gun his dad tossed him, nearly dropping it. “C’mon, Scott headed over towards the Argent house.”

Stiles blinked at the handgun, a familiar weight in his hand. Technically it was illegal for anyone without a license to handle one—and the only people who could get a license are Hunters or the few civilians allowed into the police force—but he’d been practicing with guns since he was big enough to handle the recoil. It was a familiar weight in his hand, and he made sure to check the chamber and the safety before shoving it into the waist-band of his jeans. An overwhelming love flooded through him, and before his dad could take a few steps away from the couch, Stiles launched himself forward. They hugged for a long time, just taking in the comfort, before pulling away. Stiles had to rub his nose against the sleeve of his plaid shirt “What—uh… if you saw him go, why didn’t you stop him?” He nodded gratefully as his dad handed him a carton of ammo, shoving it into his pocket.

“Because it’s not my place, son. He’s scared, he never asked for this and he doesn’t want it. You’ve had your whole life to think about how precarious your position is here in Beacon, to think about leaving it all without a thought. Him though? Well,” Noah shrugged, leading them towards the back door. “It’s a big change.”

Stiles found he couldn’t say anything. They walked silently through the back yard, opening the fence that led into the woods. Trees were far apart here, with huge canopies that just barley let the stars peak through. Their feet crunched on dead leaves as they jogged easily towards the nicer part of the neighborhood, where the Argent house lived. Within twenty minutes they were crossing through a backyard to the Argent’s neighbor’s back yard mansion, crouching behind the bushes. “Stay close,” Noah warned, “All these houses have motion sensors.”

“Mansions, you mean.” It had always seemed unfair to Stile’s—the strong disparity in wealth between Hunters and everybody else. Stiles’s and his dad had a nice house, sure, but nice for a civilian was a totally different class all together from the Hunter’s. The Stilinski’s house was given to them, but they barely had enough food to put in the fridge, and the power in their house was always a fleeting thing. They always had brown-outs, sometimes full black outs for weeks or months on end. Stile’s had three pairs of clothing that he washed in an outside stream. But then, they were better off than most families could dream of, here in Village Hills. Scott and his mom practically lived in a shed and had to share a single room with a bunk bed in it, if Mellissa didn’t decide to sleep on the couch between shifts. Lydia was probably the only one with the wealth and means to have all this on her own—and only because her mother was the Mayor.

The Argents had so much electricity that they had sensor lights that would flash if someone ever came onto their yard. They had cars—multiple even—and gas to put in them. Lights were on inside a house with nearly seven bedrooms, with only three people living inside. And Stiles knew from going to school with Allisson that they had so much food that she brought it to them before it would grow moldy in their fridge. They had grass and hedges and flowers on their lawns, instead of the brown dirt everyone else had. A new pair of clothes every day, and guns—so many guns.

Stiles stayed close to the hedge, watching the glowing house, gun held casually in both hands in front of him. “Son…” He looked over at his dad, whose eyes were on the Argent house as he spoke. “If things go your way… you’ll be alone.”

Stiles had been trying not to think about that. The possibility of it welled in his stomach, pooling with heaviness and anxiety. “Yeah.”

“I’ve… I’ve heard stories.” Noah said. “About Agathe. Apparently, the roaming covens make this place look like a modern paradise.” Stiles blinked, trying not to picture what that would be like. “I know how much you hate not having a certain way of life—”

“You make me sound like a princess.” Stiles muttered.

“Not a princess, just… born in the wrong era.” Noah sighed heavily. “I wish you could have been born a few hundred years earlier, before the Great Divide. When everyone had cars, and xbox was new, and you could have been anything you wanted. You’d have made a damn good cop, son. A fantastic one.”

 “With my track record—”

“You rebel against people telling you what to do, is all. And that’s all this world is. People telling you what to do, who to be.” He reached over, clapping his hand on Stile’s shoulder. Stiles rocked with the motion, nearly falling into the hedge when his dad’s weight set him right. “And… Agathe will be a challenge for you.”

“I’ll learn.”

“Yes, yes you will.” Noah sighed. “I wish I could be there with you. Maybe if we get new identities we could live in Skiral—”

“Dad.” Stiles hissed, watching the motion lights at the Argent house turned on.

“I know, I know. They’d be hunting after us, but if we stayed low—”

“ _Dad_.” Stiles hissed, jerking his head towards the Argent house. “Look.” Cars pulled up, a red SUV and a black one, riding down the street from the other direction, pulling up into the drive way. His dad was silent, gun coming out and held loosely in front of him like Stiles’s.

The red SUV turned off, while the black stayed on. Stiles watched as Chris Argent came out of the driver’s side of the red SUV, hoping down and scanning the area with too sharp eyes. Stiles didn’t duck, but he felt his dad lower. From the black SUV, a woman came out of the passenger’s side, walking up to Chris with her hands in her back pockets. She was terrifying in a way Stile’s couldn’t place. Chris was sharp, ‘soldier’ leaking from every pore of his body—but there was something more sinister coming from this woman.

“Who is that?”

“Kate—Kate Argent.” Noah whispered. “Chris’s younger sister.”

Stiles frowned, he’d never heard of her before. They talked, too far away from Stiles to hear what was being said. Five men were getting out of the SUV, men in black tactical gear, all with guns attached to them. Hip holsters, thigh holsters, shoulder holsters, a few with clip-on machine guns to their vests. They all stood around near the front door of the house as Chris and his sister spoke. After a minute, Chris headed up towards the house.

“You think Scott is here?”

“Haven’t seen him—but yeah.” Noah nodded. “That boy only thinks with his second head.”

Stiles’s laughter was cut short by a loud, agonized scream. Stiles jumped, nearly exposing himself over the hedge before his Dad grabbed his shoulder again and ducked him down. Kate was standing at the back of the black SUV, the back opened. As far as Stiles could tell, the screaming was coming from there. Kate stood, her hands up on the top of the hatch back, staring down in the trunk with a sleazy smile on her face.

“I’ve heard some nasty reports.” Noah murmured, voice so low Stiles could hardly hear. “The Argents control all of the hunters in Beacon Territory. Every report, every hunting, gun and ammunition contracts, training—it all goes through them. Gerard heads it, you’ve heard of him.” Stiles didn’t even nod. There wasn’t a single person in Beacon that didn’t know Gerard Argent’s name. It was in every text book they had to read at school, every Hunting pamphlet handed out on careers day. “He stays in Capitol most of the time, doing paperwork. Rarely goes out on the field unless they find a group of transitioners that have been fleeing for more than a week or two. Kate mostly goes out for him. And her methods are…”

Another high-pitched scream from the back of the SUV. Kate threw back her head to laugh, before her foot came up with a shocking amount of dexterity and kicks inside. The screams die down.

“If a new werewolf is even suspected, she burns their house down with the entire family inside. A kind of calling card, or signature. She’s known to get… close to teenagers they think are hiding who they are. Anything from werewolves to witches to vampires…” Stiles had never heard of vampires in Beacon. They were more common in Skiral, where it rained more and the sun rarely ever shown. “Even the occasional fea or water creature. She finds a way into the pants of the younger males… and she abuses till she kills them.”

“That’s sick.” Stiles hissed, the weight of his gun itching to raise upwards. He can’t help but think the world would be a lot better without the monsters that roamed it. Not the supernatural creatures, but the true monsters. “How can she get away with that? I know Hunters are the law around here, but seriously—how can they just—just—”

“They cover it up well. I only know as much as I do because I dig, and my job gives me a lot of access.” Noah sighed. “Do you—”

Stiles looked over at him, then followed his line of sight. They both watched as Scott McCall slowly climbed out of a window and onto the peak of the garage roof. He could see Allisson standing behind him, black hair lifting in the wind as she looked behind her, only to desperately shove Scott out. The window slammed and then glowing golden eyes looked over at them in the darkness. He grinned, gave a thumbs up—

A gunshot rang out. Scott ducked just in time, as shingles exploded where his head had been. He dropped the shirt in his hand and then dropped off from the roof—and that’s all Stiles saw before Noah was shoving him down onto the ground. “Damn fool.” Noah cursed.

“Chris!” A woman—probably Kate—yelled. “Chris!” Stiles could hear her curse as Noah started to army crawl towards the back of the yard, into the woods Scott must have disappeared into. “Darnel, Kyle, Jason—go see if Chris and Allisson are all right.” He could hear the back of the SUV’s trunk slamming closed. “Where is Victoria?”

Stiles followed his dad. He ran award crouched behind the hedges after his father, seeing Allisson just in time.  She was arguing with her dad, screaming at him and trying to hit him in the chest with feeble fists as he grabbed at her arms. Stiles watched as he shook her by her elbows, so furious that his face was growing red as he screamed into her face. A shame, really. Allisson was a cool chick. Bat shit crazy family, but no one could really be blamed for that.

Stiles turned back to his father’s receding form. Noah waited just by the fence, gun up and ready, body lowered. Stiles joined him, pressing his back to the wood. “We only have minutes before they come after Scott, let’s hope we get to him before they do.” Noah said. They left the way they came, lifting over the fence and vaulting off. “Split up.” Noah said. “And son—” He grabbed Stiles by the shoulder as Stiles headed off towards the right, to the hospital. “Stay safe.”

“Yeah, you better stay safe yourself.” Stiles hugged his dad one last time, whispering in his ear as he could hear yelling and arguing coming from the Argent house. “I love you. I don’t think I ever told you this, but I’m so fucking glad you’re my dad.” They hugged each other a bit tighter, before the urgency made them break apart. “Go home. We’re all meeting up after.”

His dad pulled away, something on his face saying he knew it was a lie. “And if I have Scott with me?”

He thought of Lydia. Her fears to leave him—her determination to get away. The little freckles on her face he’d forgotten were even there. Would he leave his best friend behind just to go with her and the others? No, never. Scott was everything to him. “I…” He heaved a huge sigh, the air not filling his lungs properly. “Dad—”

“East Exit, right? Quickest way to get to Skiral from here but looking like you’re going to Village Hawthorn. I’ll send him your way if I can.” Noah said, stepping back as Kate started barking orders to go into the woods. Stiles could hear Allisson yelling at them to leave Scott alone. “I’ll stay… stay for Mellissa.” With a tight nod, he was gone, heading towards the McCall house.

Stiles watched him go, before gunshots blasted in the air. He jumped, realizing the hunters were all shooting into the air, whooping to get the blood lust flowing for a new chase. Stiles hated them at that moment—hated everything they did.

He ran towards the hospital. He and Scott had trekked through the woods enough to know that his brother would head to Big Creek Rock before looping south, towards the road the hospital stood on. He went in that direction. After a while, he could hear the hunters running after him, their feet crunching on the dead leaves littering the ground. A few flash lights were mounted on cross bows and guns, and he could see them sweeping through the woods, though he was somehow always a few yards away from the beam.

He made it past Big Creek Rock, and kept running. A stitch stung at his side, and the alcohol in his body made his vision swim. He should have had water, not more whisky. The hangover that was always coming pounded at his brain with ever step.

A roar sounded out in the wood, loud and painful and with a second voice box, resonating into the air. Stiles looped left, towards the sound, stopping only when he heard heavy foot falls running in the same direction.

His heart was pounding in his chest, his brain unable to really process anything but that. His body though, seemed to know what to do like it had been doing this his entire life. The safety clicked off and he stood with his feet apart, his elbows loosely bent, and he fired. He couldn’t see where he’d hit—but the man went flying downward, shooting a crazy fire of semi-automatic bullets in a spray. He was on the man before he could think to actually get over there, his gun swinging down with as much force as he could put behind it. The man’s head made a crack sound, and he was still. He gave no resistance as Stiles flipped him over and stripped him of his weapons. A gun on the thigh with its safety on, a heavy knife at his belt loop, and a machine gun clipped effectively to his vest. He didn’t check if the man was alive—he didn’t want to know—but saw that he’d been shot in the leg. There wasn’t enough time to help him, but Stiles found himself making a tourniquet out of his own belt, looping it around the man’s thigh to stop the bleeding.

Then he was off, running. He saw flashes of different trees before he moved just in time to avoid them. Saw men sweeping the woods. He shot those he could, dodged the ones he couldn’t. “Hey!” He yelled, “Buddy!”

Another roar, sounding almost like 'Stay Away!' shot out into the wood to Stiles's right. He altered his course, managing to see brief flashes of yellow, glowing eyes and a strange blue-white blinking light before he was forced to look in front of him. A figure--Kate Argent, strong, muscled, feminine--stepped out from a tree and rounded on him, gun pointed close. Stiles slid on dead leaves, meeting the eyes of a very cold gazed Kate Argent as his ass landed on the ground.

"Hello there." She said, almost conversationally. She stood with practiced ease, legs apart, gun pointed casually down at him. "Bit human looking to be out here all by yourself, darling."

Scott roared again into the air. That heavy dread that Stiles had started feeling every time he thought about Agathe was in his stomach again. He wondered, with a brain too foggish and addled to really think--if Kate Argent was going to shoot him dead or make his suffer first. At least Lydia and the others would get away. Maybe if he played this right--Scott could use his death as a distraction and get out too. In a perfect world, maybe.

"Aren't you cute though." She purred. Stiles wanted to puke. She walked forward, and the sound of a twig snapped behind her made Kate Argent look back.

Stiles didn't think. Suddenly Kate was falling backwards, and the pain of the gun's recoil was shooting up his right arm. He watched as she fell--but was up before she hit the ground flat on her back. Just in time to get the perfect view of who had snapped the twig. Allison, looking pale and wide eyed and shocked stood there in her PJs, watching Kate. But Stiles didn't have time for either Argent woman. As Scott roared again, Stiles turned and ran for the blinking blue and white light. It was the end of an arrow, which was pinning Scott's forearm to the tree. Scott was standing fully shifted, eyes glowing, face contorted with his new features as he snapped his teeth. He honestly looked more animal than human at that moment, jaw nearly unhinged as he tried to bite something nowhere near him.

Scott was snarling at the man standing ten paces in front of him, and thankfully the man was as equally preoccupied. Knowing not to look away from his target, Chris Argent tensed his arms holding the crossbow up and said, "Kate? What did you find? Is Allison okay?"

Stiles said nothing. He shot Chris Argent in the shin as Scott suddenly roared for Stiles to stop. Stiles didn’t stop. He watched as Chris fell into his own leg’s weight, screaming at the pain. “Stiles stop!” A gun to the head knocked Chris out, just like any other human man.

“No!” Allisson suddenly flew up towards him. She looked tortured, her face whiter than he’d ever seen it, tears streaming freely from her eyes as she grabbed at her dad. “No no no no no,” She moaned, checking his pulse. “Oh god—dad, dad.” She shook his body. “ _Dad!_ ” She wailed. Her voice was growing hoarse. He’d never heard anyone scream like this before. Not even the boy trapped in the back of Kate Argent’s SUV. “What did you do Stiles? What did you do!”

Stiles was sure he’d never get the image of her screaming at him out of his mind for the rest of his life. But he was numb to it right now.

He thought of knocking her out, but didn’t. “How are you here?”

From where he was pinned to the tree, Scott asked, “Awishon?”

“Shut up! Shut up I don’t ever want to hear your voice again!” She wailed. “Shut up!”

He sighed, crouching down. He pointed to Chris’s belt. “If he’s alive, use his belt to stop the bleeding.” She fumbled for his belt, and Stiles felt something he hadn’t even known was there lift from his chest as she tried to save her dad’s life. “How’d you get here?”

“I ran after them.” She hissed, glaring at him as she struggled to get her dad’s belt off. “I didn’t want them hurting Scott.”

He stood. “Come with us.” He said.

She only glared, her body jerking as she tried to get the belt. Stiles reached over, ignoring how she slapped at him until she realized he was only lifting Chris’s body to help her get the belt off. It came with an easy tug, and she had it around her father’s knee in an instant. “Come with us.” He said again. She was shaking, crying. “We’ll drop you off—”

“I won’t be your hostage.” She hissed out. They both ignored Scott’s whine.

“Not our hostage. A friend. One who needs answers, and closure, and maybe a little bit of distance from…” He looked around. He realized at that second that there were other Hunters out in the woods, ones with guns that could be on them at any minute. How many had he shot? How many had he avoided instead? They’d probably call for reinforcements—and soon the woods would be filled with Hunters ready to kill. “It’s up to you.” He said. He stood and walked over to Scott, who was still fully shifted, a low whine coming continually from his chest, only changing as he breathed in and out.

The arrow sticking out of his forearm was odd. It blinked, signaling where it had landed. Stiles gripped it, right up to the skin of Scott’s forearm where the blood had made it slick. “Okay bud, on three. Don’t roar.”

“Swilhes—”

“One, two—” He pulled. Scott didn’t roar, didn’t scream, but was suddenly pushing Stiles down and standing in his place. Another glowing blue-white arrow was in his arm, near the shoulder. Allison stood with her father’s cross bow in her hand, her body heaving with her rapid breathing.

Stiles scrambled up. He tried to raise his gun up, but Scott quickly slapped his arm down so hard the gun flew into the ground, his hand burning. “You-sh von’th hwurt hwer.”

“You—you—” Allison was shaking, but the crossbow was steady. “I _hate_ you.”

“You won’t kill us.” Stiles said. “You aren’t a killer.”

“But you are!” She wailed. Stiles felt his chest throb, but he didn’t look over to Kate Argent’s body.

“Do you know what your family does, Allisson?” Stiles asked, ignoring Scott’s sharp snarl as Stiles stepped forward. “Not just the Hunting, but the mass murdering, the arson, the rape?”

“Shut up! You liar!”

“I’m not lying!” Stiles yelled so loud his own voice was hoarse. “She deserved it! You don’t believe me, go back to your shining mansion and look in your Aunt’s trunk.”

“Swilshes.” Scott said as warning. He was glaring over at Stiles.

“Lets go, Allison.” Stiles said. “Just—let us go. Scott will be killed here. His mom too, if he doesn’t get out.”

Allison’s crossbow dipped down, then she let it fall. She crumpled there, crying so bad that it felt like his own chest was being ripped apart with each cry. Stiles grabbed his discarded gun, though he already had more then he knew what to do with—and tried to tug Scott away. Scott though, wouldn’t move. He looked down at Allison like his own heart was coming out of his chest, carving its way out with ever heave and wail. “Dude— We have to _go_.”

Scott moved towards Allison, but stopped as she crab walked backwards. “ _Leave me alone!_ ” She screamed, voice cracking at the end. “Just go. _Just go_. I never want to see you again. I never want to touch you again. You freak. You—you _monster_.”

Scott whined, but when Stiles tugged on his arm, he followed.

* * *

Lydia was leaning against her car’s open trunk. Bags were pilled around her feet as Scott and Stiles came running up. She took in the sight of them—Scott shirtless, bleeding, an arrow in his shoulder, and Stiles carrying enough firepower that he’d be shot on sight, no questions asked—with a very slow blink. Then she was moving. She met them a few feet from the car.

“Get that arrow out of your chest. It has a tracker on it.” She ordered.

Scott ripped it out without a problem. His forearm had healed on the run over, tacky undried blood staining his skin and hair. He handed the arrow to her without a word, and she threw it out into the field they were standing by. “Give him your shirt.” She said, already tugging Stile’s plaid off his shoulders. It exposed more of the guns he had tucked into his jeans, but she ignored them in favor of throwing Scott the shirt. “Get in the car, Scott. Backseat next to Hayden.” Stiles looked over her shoulder, to see two glowing gold eyes and a pair of glowing blue staring back at him. “I don’t know what I’ll do about that hair, but try to keep your hands tucked away.” She shoved him when he didn’t move—and Scott slowly, as if in a daze—started to move towards the car.

“Stiles—” She reached up and wiped away the tears he hadn’t known were on his face. He looked away from the car and down at her slowly. She’d somehow managed to find the time to put her makeup on again. “Are you okay?”

“No.” He whispered. His voice was wrecked. “I don’t think I’ll ever be okay again.” And it was the truth. A horrible, awful truth.

“But you made it. You got him and you came back.” She looked behind him, then rushed him over towards the car Scott was getting into. “Come on, we don’t have much time.” She walked him over to the car, taking out all his guns and throwing them into the trunk. He was glad he’d thought to click the safety’s on as he’d run behind Scott. Once they were all in, she shoved him into the trunk, and he fell in, finding it comfortable to be in the fetal position. “Stay with me, Stiles.” She ordered, throwing a blanket over him. His breathe started to fill the blanket. He heard the bags being slammed down, felt them fighting for space with him in the trunk. “Just… just stay with me.” Then the trunk slammed shut.

He was shaking. His lungs were barely filling as he fought to breathe. He was lying on a couple guns, sharp metal pressing into his temple, his ribs. He felt the car start to move, and couldn’t do anything but squeeze his eyes shut and shake. Allison’s face flashed in his mind, her tortured screamed, her fury at him. Scott hadn’t looked at him once since they’d run away from her.

Eventually the car slows. He can hear voices, some from behind him inside the car, some fainter ones outside of it. He can’t hear what’s being said. It used to drive him insane, when he’d hide back here as they were leaving to go camping. All he’d wanted was to get past the border patrol so he could stretch his legs and enjoy the drive to the camp site. Now, he huddled into himself more, trying to control his breathing, trying to block out the images of Kate falling backwards, of slamming his hand down into a man’s head, of Allison’s tortured face.

The trunk opened. Stiles didn’t breathe. He heard a man sigh. “Anything illegal I should be worried about back here? Booze? Drugs?”

“No sir.” He could hear Lydia’s most flirtatious voice. “Just camping stuff.”

The man said something, but it was muffled by the trunk slamming closed. It took Stiles a while to realize he still wasn’t breathing. Took even longer to force stale, warm breath into his lungs. The car started to move again. For some reason, he thought of all the things that _were_ illegal back here with him. The stolen guns. The drugs he’d gotten from the freezer in his pocket. The werewolves sitting in the seats. Hell— _him_. A Hunter killer.

He started to laugh, and he couldn’t stop.

 


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Stiles and Derek meet

His body felt jumpy. A paranoid fear to look over his shoulder—knowing, just somehow knowing, that the Hunters were going to come in and kill them all hung over his head with absolute certainty. Something terrible was going to happen to them. How could it not? He could feel the same panic attack that he’d repressed in the trunk of Lydia’s car thrumming just under his skin.

He’d drowned when he was younger. Nearly died from it. That’s was back when his mother’s disease had been at its worst, near the end. When she hadn’t been herself, just a weird, tormented echo of the mother he used to love.

She’d thrown him into the tub in their house and held him under water with unnaturally strong hands. He’d tried—tried so hard to get away from her, to lift up to the surface and take a breath. And when it became obvious that there was no way he could, he’d just tried to keep going, to wait out that very last moment where he’d refused to open his mouth and take in a final lungful of water. His head had been exploding from the pressure, his body thrashing, and he’d just tried to keep his mouth shut, to not breath. It had been hell—hell and panic and agony.

This felt like that. Those final moments of unrelenting pressure before his dad had come running into the bathroom, tackling his mom to the ground. He’d lifted up to the surface, taking in air, barely able to hear a woman screaming out “he’s trying to kill me! He’s trying to kill me”. Only the air had mattered to him then, that blissful air.

Stiles ran his hands over his face as everyone moved around him, finalizing a plan he couldn’t think of at the moment. “What if it just gets worse?” He asked out loud. “What if it’s agony now… and just hell later on?” His mom’s funeral had been hell. His dad’s drinking problem, hell. The blame he couldn’t help but seeing on his dad’s face every night—hell. And all that guilt, guilt he’d actually managed to think he’d gotten over until he watched Kate Argent’s body fall, that guilt came flooding back. He knew it well enough to recognize that it led to something worse, eventually. It always did.

Everyone in the car was silent and tense. “What if none of this gets any better?” he asked, into cramped and stuffy air, surrounded by people he'd litterally killed to protect.

“Bummer, dude.” He heard Liam say.

“It _will_ get better.” Lydia, always so determined.

But oddly, it was Jackson’s reply who stuck out. “It doesn’t get any better. It never will. I mean, how can it? But we’ll just keep going. Keep moving through. We have to. That’s what surviving is all about.”

* * *

About a week later they got into Skiral. After a few run ins with the Hunters it seemed like it really would just get worse--but than they met the Yukimura family. With their connections they traded the guns for a camper and got a new member to their makeshift little group. Kira was good for them. Shy, quiet for the most part, she fit in well. Her presence softened Lydia, made Scott talk about something other than Allison, gave Jackson a direction to channel his endless competitive-issues as she taught him swordplay. Mostly though, Stiles was just glad for the damn camper. It was a safe, mobile location to clip the inevitable hair and the claws--to not have to worry about wandering eyes as Jackson snapped at Scott or Liam and Hayden got so sexually frustrated they literally tore each others clothes off and howled--fucking _howled_ \--as they came. They made it through Skiral. Then the baren wasteland of the Malitia boarder. And things really did start to feel safe. Better.

He knew though, that at the end of the road Agathe was waiting for him. And he'd have to say goodbye.

* * *

 

"I mean, I just miss her already." Scott sighed.

"Please," Jackson said, using his sub-vocal growls again. "Shut. Up." He'd stopped banging his head head against the table, though, so that was an improvement.

"It's just--I left her there? You know? And she was so upset. I'd tried explained to her what was going on, that I had to leave. But it didn't come out right and was started making out 'cus she thought I was breaking up with her." Scott's voice grew dreamy and Stiled looked at the new girl, Kira, who was sitting on the couch across the narrow channel with Hayden. She had a strange, nearly strangled look on her face. Like she was trying to be really supportive but it was slowly killing her inside.

Stiles knew he eventually had to intervene with that, but right now he was relaxed enough to sit comfortably next to the always oblivious Scott, across from Jackson, and just rest. 

"It was nice--really nice. We, uh, didn't have a condom but she didn't seem to mind." In the back, laying on the bed Liam started to snarl. "It was--it was really nice." Scott sighed, grinning up onto the camper's ceiling like he could see Allison's face floating up there. "Then her dad came home and we freaked out. I went out the window--and you noticed, didn't you? Her aunt shot at me! I think my eyes must have flashed, I don't know. It's weird to shoot a guy just leaving a bedroom window, but they are a pretty intense family. They were all chasing me through the woods. Her dad shot me, for real, in the arm. And...." He trailed off, his foot slipping against Stiles. 

Stiles hadn't noticed how stiff he'd grown, so he tried to smile it off as Scott tapped his foot against his.

"You don't think she's still mad, do you?"

"What?" Lydia's voice asked, from the driver's seat. "That she unknowingly fucked a werewolf, the very creature her family is sworn to kill?" Her voice was tight, tempered. "Or that her family was injured so you could get away?"

"No way she didn't notice me being a 'wolf." Scott said. "It got kind of intense. No condom." He lifted up his hand for a bro-five, but Stiles didn't have the energy to give it back. He went around in a circle, but Jackson only snarled, Hayden didn't even look up from her book--so it fell on Kira. Poor Kira, who gave a very soft, very awkward high five to something she was obviously thinking way too much about.

"Maybe she'll have your werewolf babies." Jackson laughed.

Scott threw his body around, shaking the camper a little, looking at Jackson with wide eyes. "Seriously? You really think?" He grinned from ear to ear, looking a little like a puppy at the prospect. "Like--you think she'll keep it?"

Stiles sighed, tried tuning out his brother as he started rambling about the possibilities. “I hope it’s twins. Twins run in my family.” Scott said, cheerfully. “A boy and a girl—I’d name them Mell and Noah.” Stiles snorted. “Seriously, two great names. Ah, she’d be so pretty pregnant. Not that she isn’t totally pretty now, but—”

Stiles sat up suddenly, feeling something run down his skin, like a feather, only with the sensation of cold water. “ _Stop the car_.”

Lydia stomped on the breaks, and everyone flew around a little. Hayden soccer mom'ed Kira with her arm, Jacksons slammed into the table, and Stiles could hear Liam fall of the bed in the background with a loud crash. "What? Ah, jesus Stilinski." Jackson snarled, wolfed out again, rubbing his nose. "What the hell?"

"We're here." Stiles didn't know how he knew, but he knew that whatever it was he'd just felt meant something. "We should go on foot from here."

"On foot?" Lydia asked.

"This camper is awesome tho!" Liam yelled, from inside the bedroom.

"How do you even know?" That was Kira, looking out the window. The road looked unchanged from the past hour, just a small two-lane, pot-hole filled road surrounded by heavy trees.

"There's nothing out here, no road, nothing. Not even a goddamn wall." Jackson snarled.

Scott sighed. It looked like he was still thinking about Allison.

"We're here." Stiles said firmly. He pushed away from the table, glad to be standing. "And they'll probably be on us any minute. C'mon." He shoved at everybody to get out, walking out last after a tired looking Liam who'd just gotten off his shift as driver. As soon as they were out into the fresh air he noticed all the 'wolves sniffing.

"It smells good here." Hayden said, around a mouth full of fangs. She was the only one who didn't slur with them, and also the best at control. If she was shifted it was because the tension was so high that everyone was shifted. And like her, they were all sniffing the air with an ecstatic, nearly high look. 

"Anything smells better than that camper." Lydia muttered.

"Oh, god, what is that  _smell_?" 

Stiles sniffed the air. It smelled like forest--real forest, not the shitty woods in Village Hills--like rain and sap and cedar and pine. They were a little lower to sea level, too, so the air felt different, but nothing smelled especially fantastic. He looked to Lydia, and then Kira, who both looked just as confused. 

"Their coming." Scott said, very children-of-the-corn like. Then all the 'wolves started to move into a line, shoving Stiles, Lydia, and Kira behind them.

They waited like that for a few minutes, but nothing happened. Stiles squinted in the sun to look into the trees but there was nothing to see. The road led into them, before curving off into the right, disappearing from view. In the trees he saw only shadows and leaves. "Nothings happening." He groused, watching the 'wolves backs. They were all staring intently in front of them. "Like, are you sure their coming?"

"There already here." Hayden whispered.

"God, they smell so  _good_." Liam nearly moaned.

Stiles looked at Lydia, who was staring intently over Jackson's shoulder as if she could actually fucking see something. Her arms were crossed and she had her best 'not impressed' face on. How she managed to take the time to put on makeup and braid her hair so artfully after nearly a month on the road, he had no idea. Especially since they were never actually not moving, and the cracks, potholes, and craters that littered the roads rocked the entry camper to near tipping points sometimes. But rain or shine, night or day, she was always prepped and ready with her full face on to dump the septic tank, wash in a creak, and watch the 'wolves move abandoned cars out of the road. She was probably the only one of them that looked like she was still at home. Unrumpled. Unhairy. 

“What are they waiting for?” Lydia asked, a finger tapping against her bicep, the only clear sign that she was anxious.

“Maybe their trying to see if we were being followed?”

 “As if—we're practically in Hale already. If we were going to be followed and attacked it would have happened already.”

“Maybe we seem like Hunters?” Stiles offered.

“ _Stiles_.” Scott hissed. “Don’t say that.”

“What? Why?”

“’Cus now their growling at you.” Jackson snarled, hunched over, claws out, as if to fight.

“Oh, boo-hoo.” Stiles rolled his eyes. “They can hear me?” Scott looked over his shoulder at him, worried. “Good. Listen here—I’m tired, I’m sweaty, and I just risked my fucking life to get these guys here. Come out the fucking woods and at least _talk_ to us.”

“They think your arrogant.” Liam said.

“They’re not wrong.” Hayden laughed.

“They want to talk to us, not… the banshee and the spark and the kitsune?” Scott tilted his head, listening to something Stile’s couldn’t even hear vague whispers of. “How’d they know you guys were—Oh.”

“Well?” Lydia asked. “Mind clueing us in?”

Scott shook his head. The others were silent.

Stiles sighed. “Lycanthropy.” He said, throwing his hands up. He walked to the back of the camper, sitting down on the old style bumper and pulling out one of the cigarettes he’d bought at a grocery store in Skiral. He never was much of a smoker, but he felt stressed. It was a stressful situation. The ‘wolves hated it, saying he stunk, even forcing him to change clothes sometimes after a halfie, but he was stressed. He lit the tip, took in a huge inhale of burning smoke, and sighed it out. He wished, for the first time that he’d driven away from home, that it was weed.

“Give it here.” Lydia said.

He expected her to put it out. He took a deep inhale, then handed it over. He was surprised when she took an inhale herself, her nails—decently long themselves, though not nearly as talon looking—pinching the filter off and taking a deeper drag in than Stiles expected. She didn’t cough. Because she was a goddess. She handed it back, and they silently puff-puff passed it to each other till it was gone. She stomped on it with her dangerous heels, then grabbed Stile’s arm and tucked her small frame into his side, comforting herself. Since leaving, they’d all become more tactical, as if picking up on the ‘wolves ridiculous need to touch and hold each other all the time. Hell, they even slept together in the ginormous bed in the back when they weren't on driving shift. He pushed his cheek into her hair, and they watched the clouds roll by.

“Guys.” Jackson hissed. “Guys!” Stiles looked up. “They’re coming.”

Stiles jumped off the car, and they walked together to stand behind their ‘wolves. They watched as figures materialized from the shadows between trees. He was surprised by how human they looked. Their hair was wild, yeah, and they had a lot of it. The woman had hers in a huge, full bun. The men either had shaved hair—like Stiles used to have his freshman year of high school—or just as huge buns and braids with massively full beards. They were all barefoot, all clean looking, with normal clothes. It seemed like they painted their claws, most of them red. But none of them were actively shifted, no wrinkly foreheads, no pointed ears, no fangs. They walked with a kind of smoothness that scared Stiles, and he clutched at Lydia’s hand.

Five of them walked up. A blond woman, four men. One was huge, body builder huge, with no shirt to emphasize the rolling muscles under his gleaming black skin. He was the shaved haired one. One man was lanky in comparison to the others, a scarf around his neck, a coiled braid on his head that didn’t keep the curls from escaping. One was medium height, but obviously built, with a thick neck and thicker muscles joining neck to shoulders, also shirtless, also bun-haired. And then there was the clear leader, walking ahead of them, terrifying. His skin was pale, his beard not so much a beard as after shave, with huge eyebrows and relatively short hair, nearly human-short. Built but not huge, he glided over to them in a very predatory way. 

They stopped a few feet from the car. “My name is Alpha Derek.” _Ohh, look at my muscles,_ Stiles thought, weirdly giddy. He realized it had been a long time since he'd been around anyone he could think about sexually. The man glared at them in turn. His pale eyes moved from the ‘wolves, then to Lydia and Kira and Stiles. When they made eye contact, Stiles felt a shiver run rack his frame.

Lydia moved closer. She grabbed him, pulling herself to his side and holding on. The Alpha’s eyes moved to her, then back to the ‘wolves. “This is my Territory.”

“What a fine Territory it is.” Stiles said, watching his ‘wolves twitch—and on the other side, the blond female and the bare-chest one with the thick neck grinned. They didn’t even need fangs, they were terrifying.

“Thank you.” The Alpha said, non-pulsed. “What are you doing here?”

“We’ve come for… for protection.” Scott said.

“Our home wasn’t safe for us.” Hayden said, clutching onto Liam.

“Where do you come from?”

“Beacon.” Jackson said. “Village Hills.”

The Alpha nodded. “Far away. And the other three?” His eyes moved back to Stiles, before flicking away. 

"Same place, yeah." Stiles shrugged.

"I'm from Skiral." Kira mentioned, voice low and shy.

"Basically all just lookin' for a safe place." Stiles said. Because that was the point. Not where they were from, but the fact that  _Hale is supposed to be safe_.

“We just want sanctuary.” Scott nodded, tilting his head in a strange, almost painful way, so his neck was arched to the side. Unconsciously it seemed like, Hayden and Liam did the same thing. Only Jackson didn’t, his fists shaking at his sides. He was starting to ‘wolf out.

“Man,” Stiles reached forward, tugging Jackson closer. “Chill out.”

“I-I-I _can’t_.” Jackson hissed.

“You must submit.” The big guy behind the Alpha said.

“Submit.” The blond woman hissed, like a creepy echo.

Jackson only shook. Lydia walked over to him, hugged him from behind. His shaking stopped quickly, his body leaning against hers. Eventually, he adopted that same awkward neck posture.

The Alpha’s eyes moved from Jackson, to Stiles. “And you.” He ordered. “Must submit.”

Stiles tilted his head up, elongating his neck. He barley tilted it to the side, not wanting to hurt his neck in the painful way the others were. He watched as the Alpha’s eyes flashed, briefly. Not gold—not Jackson’s blue--but a deep, bloody red. “That is no submission.” The Alpha said, using his second voice-box, but it sounded purrier, smoother than the usual growl. He was staring at Stiles neck with an oddly intense look.

"It's the only submission I'm gunna give." Stiles challenged.

" _Stiles_." Scott hissed. "Don't do this man."

The Alpha seemed to agree, though there was something in his posture as he stalked forward that made Stiles think that he liked it, if only just a little. The wall of Stiles's 'wolves parted like the goddamn sea as Alpha Derek moved closer. And then sudden, the big guy was right in front of him, towering over him though Stiles could tell he was taller by at least an inch. Something about the presence of the guy was massive, dominating. Stiles was shaking, his body aching suddenly to run. Derek's eyes were glowing that same bloody red, his upper lip curling but not exposing teeth. He stayed in human form, though, his forehead not once getting wrinkly with extra skin. "Spark--"

"Stiles." Stiles said, trying to keep his voice from quivering and almost managing.

The look on Derek's face was like everyone's look. Kira had had the same look, so had her parents. So had Jackson, Scott, Liam, Hayden, and even Lydia. It was the 'what the fuck is a Stiles?' look. A look he'd grown to expect. "Stiles--"

The words we're barely out of his mouth before the black spots in his vision started to consume him, and Stiles fainted.

 

 


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited this chapter to not be as rushed.

Stiles was on the ground, blinking up at Alpha Derek, at his 'wolves, at Lydia and Kira. It seemed like he'd barley hit the ground because Jackson--the furthest away at the time--was still rushing over. 

It was also really, really bright out. Stiles squinted up at them from the ground, raising his hand to shield the sun and getting a weird whiff of his own underarm sweat and cloying cigarette smoke. "Mercy." Stiles said, his voice hoarse. "I do believe I have the case of the vapors." There was a weird echo to his voice, like he had a second voice-box suddenly, speaking in a lower growl than he had ever been able to produce before. It made his voice sound husky and kinda porny.

Fear gripped him. He looked at the hand he had in front of his face, blocking out the sun. Definitely his hand. And the fingers were still his fingers. Long round nail beds and all.

He looked to the Alpha, who had an unreadable look on his face, his massive eyebrows growing in together, his mouth parted. The second Stiles made eye contact with the blood ones, Derek's face changed. He looked as satisfied as the deep rumble that came out of his chest sounded. He winked--fucking winked--at Stiles and started to walk away.

"Hey!" Stiles sat up. "What the fuck?"

Stiles Stilinski was many things. None of those things were some kind of Victorian age maiden with a tight ass corset on. He could breathe--and he could handle emotion just as well as the next person. He was not someone who swooned at hot guys who said his name. He was no some damsel in distress who fainted when a monster came by. He was a strong, independent man, goddamn it. There was no reason for him to have just  _swooned_.

There was also no reason to feel this incredible after it. He must have hit the ground hard--knocked his head. Maybe he was dreaming. Because he was pretty sure he might be a werewolf. Even though that was as impossible as him fainting. Witches just dont transition into another species--his blood, his hormones, they were literally considered incapable. 

But suddenly the world was very different than before. He could hear things--the rustling through the trees, the way Jackson's feet hit the gravel, the swaying of body weight from the 'wolves all the way across the road. There were even two 'wolves--Derek's 'wolves--hidden in the forest of the trees, watching and waiting. He could hear the way one leaned against a tree, skin rubbing on course wood. Could hear their bated breathe. 

And the smells. Fuck, the smells. There were a lot of them, but if he focused hard enough he could distinguish one from the other. Like the cigarette smell that reeked off his and Lydia's bodies--only hers was mixed with the spicy, expensive smell of her perfume, and his mixed with his sweat. And even though he should have no idea that it was Kira he was smelling with that ozone-and-static smell, he knew it had to be her scent, because it was the most distinct, the most separate from everyone else. Unlike Hayden and Liam who were so close to each other that their scents were nearly inseparable; instead they made a complex, intense smell that somehow represented the both of them as well as individuals. Jackson smelled more like emotions that anything, a cloying smell of need and hurt and defensiveness and anger. Scott smelled like Doritos and chicken fingers and... well, Scott. Like Liam and Hayden, it mixed up in his nose as not just his own scent, but a mix with his own and Stile's--a combination of uniqueness that emphasized how close they were. It smelled really freakin' good--reminded Stiles that he wasn't alone. Just with scent, he knew that Scott was here, that Scott had his back.

If he went out farther, he could smell how the wind carried the scent of the air around them, bringing them all that scent of pure wildness. It was a myriad of pure smells; sap, moss, pine, fresh leaves, dead leaves, mushrooms, old rain, new rain, animals and fur and hot breathe and dry insects. There was also the smell of natural death in there--but it was still pleasant, because it was mixed up in all the living scents, too. Pure wildness. 

Across the way, the 'wolves all smelled the same. Too far away, or maybe just too close to one another, their scents were almost inseparable and indistinguishable. Except for Derek. Derek's stood out, and it wasn't even a smell, really, it had too visceral a reaction. More like a punch to his gut. A hardness in his dick.

Derek's 'wolves--even the ones he couldn't see in the trees, but could hear--were all looking at him as he sat on the road. He could feel their shock, their confusion, a mix of barley there scent and posture and instinct. They were also feeding off Derek's sudden rise of panic, a faint charcoal like smell that lifted out of his good-good smell, tainting it just a bit. Only the thick-necked 'wolf was unaffected, grinning in that evil way that Stiles hated. No one needed that much teeth, that much satisfied malice to twist their face up. Stiles watched him watch Derek and the emotion of dislike ripped through his throat in a perfect thrum, tickling his vocal cords.

He didn't expect the reactions he got. In the same instance that Stile's pack moved to surround him, Scott and Jackson using their still wolfed out figures to hunch and snarl above him--the evil grinning thick-necked 'wolf made eye contact. His eyes were like Jackson's, an electric blue. 

Derek stopped moving, positioning his body so that Stiles couldn't see the thick-necked 'wolf any more, his back stiff. The wind shifted, so Stiles couldn't smell it--and then he was distracted by Hayden's low whine. Like Stiles, the sound was pure emotion, a plea at Stiles not to do anything, to calm down.

So much new information, so much fucking happening. He felt like he understood more in this last few seconds about lycanthropy than he had in years and years in studying up on them in the Dark Web. And even more than he had as he traveled with them in a small ass trailer. But that didn't mean he knew what the fuck was going on. How he knew all this--or more importantly, what had even happened to him. There was nothing in his vast mental database to inform him how he could be feeling and hearing and smelling what he did. He was completely in the dark. And Stiles hated it.

The Alpha knew though. The Alpha had understood, and he'd decided not to tell Stiles.

He moved--faster than he ever had before, with more grace than he was used too--and launched himself at the Alpha's back.

His ‘wolves grabbed him before he could get far. Even though they'd been poised for an outside attack, they were fast enough to stop him before he so much as took two steps. Scott looping an arm around Stile’s throat, Jackson taking his right arm, Hayden his left. He struggled against them, surprised to find that it wasn’t hard to wiggle out of their holds. He’d tried doing an arm wrestling competition with Hayden a few days ago, in one of the many bathroom breaks on the side of the road. She’d nearly broken his hand. Now, he easily shoved her away, and the others, stomping forward. “Hey!”

“Get in your trailer and follow my betas.” The Alpha said without turning around, still standing immobile in the road. Stiles could smell him now. He smelled like tea leaves and brick, an anxious smell that Stiles didn't like mixed with his natural scent. “We’ll meet you at the—”

“ _No_.” He grabbed the guy’s shoulder, spinning him around. Blood eyes stared back at him. Derek's intense smell hit his nose full on, but at least he didn't faint this time. He gripped the man's meaty shoulder harder. “What the hell is going _on_?” He tried his best to ignore the smell and his dick.

“You're a spark.” It wasn’t the Alpha who spoke, but the thick-necked one. Stiles didn't even look over at him. “Your magic is attuned to your will. Your will to your magic.”

“Helpful.” Stiles spat.

“Your will desired to be a werewolf.” The man went on. He sounded smug, viciously so. “So your magic made you one of us.” He laughed. “In theory.”

“What?” Stiles blinked. He felt like he’d been hit. It was one thing to guess he was a werewolf despite the fact that he had been born with magic--but to hear that his magic had been the thing to do it? A magic he hadn't once touched, once trained had literally changed his physiology? And for what? Because he'd desired it?

Stiles had desired many, many things in his life. He'd wanted to join the circus when he was a kid. He'd wanted Lydia Martin to look at him as more than a friend. He'd wanted Scott to be his actual brother. He'd wanted his mom to not die. He'd wanted to not be so jealous of the things the rich people in Village Hills had on the top of the mountain, with their glowing lights and green grass. He'd wanted to change the world, steal from the rich and give to the poor, wanted to hunt down bad guys, wanted to get away with more crimes. And this? This is what his magic decided to do? Sure, Agathe had been a looming cloud of his head. He hadn't wanted to leave Scott and Lydia and the rest of them like he'd left his Dad. The past month of safety and travel had been like a fleeting dream as it happened, like he was watching it all in a daze, knowing it was temporary, knowing that the month would probably be the best month of his entire life before he was shipped off to an island with strangers who prayed and read spells and preformed magic all damn day. So yeah, he hadn't wanted to be alone. But seriously--this? His magic had done this? 

He was snarling, low and in pain, and he didn't know what do with all this new information.

"You're a magic made wolf." The guy--the one with the thick neck--said, as if his information would help Stile's low whine--or maybe he was trying to encourage it, it was hard to tell. "All the super senses, strength, and speed of our kind, with none of the shifting."

"Shame, really. He'd look hot shifted." The blond girl said. She was looking at Stiles with hungry eyes.

The Alpha--Derek--snarled at her without looking over his shoulder. A snarl said  _back off_  . It was possessive and insecure all at once. She looked away from Stiles quickly, her ears heating up. Stiles heard Derek say in human speech, "It is not magic that made him this way. It was  _bond_. Mate Bond."

"Excuse me?" Stiles screeched. It was an answer, but it gave him so many more questions. He had no idea what it even ment, but it made more sense than his magic being the cause.

"Is that why his eyes are silver?" Scarf-boy asked. His eyes were silver now?

“S-Stiles?” Scott walked closer. Even though Stiles back was turned to them, he could tell his pack had closed into a half circle, Scott closest, and Lydia standing behind Jackson to the left, Liam and Hayden holding each other and Kira--he couldn't actually feel Kira, just smell the odd storm of her--as she stood next to them. He could feel them behind him, a wonderful warmth. A protection against anything.

Stiles wanted to turn around and grab Scott—grab all of them—but the blood eyes of the Alpha made him look forward, made him keep his position. His hand was still on the man’s shoulder, the warmth seeping through their skins. Their scents mixed there, Derek's heady one being tainted by cigarette smoke and staleness. Stiles felt like he had too many things to ask, to many things to say, but he couldn't say them. He didn’t really want to let go either. So he met the Alpha's eyes and stared into them, unable to say or do anything.

The eye contact apparently set the guy off. Instinct and need infected the Alpha, and he snarled, posture changing. “ _Submit_.” He said it with a deep, booming growl that reminded Stiles of when Scott had first shifted, humming so deep and loud that it had felt like concert speakers were right next to him, shaking his rib cage, thrumming through his body.

Stiles had no idea what he was even asking. It felt bigger than just 'bend your neck'--it felt like he was asking for trust, and maybe servitude. The idea of that, and even just tilting his neck in false acceptance, was infuriating. He wasn't going to do anything just because a hot guy demanded it. Shit, he'd already swooned for him. No way was he doing this huge thing. His own voice grew deep, and loud, an echo of the Alpha’s, but his own. _“Make me_.”

The thick necked guy started to laugh just as the Alpha grabbed Stiles's throat. Fingers and thumb pressed into the sides of his neck, near his jaw. He could breathe, but he was feeling more and more lightheaded at the second, like the blood wasn’t going into his head. He grabbed the guys wrist, not really trying to pull away, mostly because he was concerned about the fact that his feet literally lifted off the ground.

Jackson came running up. He threw himself into the Alpha’s side, but it did nothing. The guy didn’t even twitch, his arm still holding Stiles up. He did however look away from Stiles, to snarl at Jackson. He’d been trying to push the Alpha, but at the sound of the subvocal snarl that was all power and strength, Jackson back away, literally crawling away on the road to get away. A low whine in his throat started, a desperate plea not to be hurt, that he was sorry.

“Let him go!” Scott screamed, running up too. He didn’t attack, just grabbed the Alpha’s arm, trying to add his weight. The Alpha didn’t even seem to notice. His blood eyes were back on Stiles. “ _Submit_.”

“No.” Stiles could feel his face growing red, shaking with all the pressure. He could breathe, but it was hard, the hand effectively choking him without even pressing on his windpipe. He wished he knew magic—knew how his spark worked. If he did, he could make this guy let go. Instead, he could only press his fingers in deep into the guys arm, thumb searching for a tendon. When he found one, he pressed as hard as he could. The Alpha’s arm started to shake, and finally Stile’s combined pressure and Scott’s dangling weight made him drop Stiles. As soon as he was free and breathing, he started to cough. Scott rushed at him, grabbing him and hauling him back towards the camper. They held on to each other as Stiles coughed. Stiles really should not be having the boner he had right now. His body was a traitor.

"Nephew." The thick-necked 'wolf said. "He will not submit."

"I've noticed." Insecurity on him smelled like chocolate covered coffee beans.

"So. I believe the Run is in order." Derek snarled, somehow making it perfectly clear that he liked the idea but didn't like it coming from the thick necked wolf, his uncle. Derek's blood eyes somehow becoming more defined, his posture protective and stiff. The chocolate covered coffee smell grew stronger. "We'll gather the others--they'll all definitely have to be vetted by Talia and Deaton. But we can let nature decide where they belong. Structurally, of course."

Stiles coughed, leaning against Hayden and Jackson and tried to focus on their scents more than the strong, heady one floating through the air, making his dick ache for pressure and release. Try to focus on comfort and protection.

He watched as Derek the Alpha centered himself too, taking in a huge, deep breathe as he closed his eyes. He held it for a while, but by the time he let it go his eyes were open and a very normal, if not unfairly beautiful color. "Follow Boyd in your camper." He said evenly.  There was no other way to describe the way he turned and bolted other than fleeing. He ran past his small group of 'wolves, who followed after him in a half run. He heard the two 'wolves hiding in the woods join as Derek ran past their position--and then they were gone. Only the big, bald, huge one was left.

With the other 'wolves gone, the road instantly felt different. Calmer, and some different from when Derek had stood there, his pack behind him.

Stiles looked at him. Too far away to smell, the wind too weak, he could only tell that the guy was stoic and buff. He gave them the gentlest of nods in their direction, then turned to the side to watch the clouds pass by--giving them an illusion of privacy. But Stiles knew there was no privacy, that he was listening to ever breath, every shift in weight, every word and snarl and whine. How could he not? He was maybe a half mile away--and Derek and his running 'wolves were at least a mile and a half by now, and Stiles could still hear them crashing through the woods at break-neck speed, trying to follow Derek's crazy flee.

Scott, though, apparently didn't give a fuck. "What. The. Hell."

"Right?" Without that scent in the air, it was easier to think. He put one hand to his pants to readjust himself and the other to his face. He was going to get such massive blue balls.

"No, seriously  _Mischief_ \--what the fuck?" Stiles winced at her frosty anger smell. Lydia only called him that when she was really, really pissed, but the scent was worse. He could tell it stemmed from fear, from confusion, that she was just reacting to the strange new development of things--but it still hurt. "What did you just do? What just happened?"

Stiles honestly had no idea. He was lost. But he still felt good--more than the new physical good he'd gotten as soon as he'd woken up from his little faint, he felt like there was some hope in him now. If he was a werewolf, then he wouldn't have to go to Agathe, right? Even if he was a magic-made-wolf. He'd be able to stay with her and Scott and the others. He'd keep his new family. That was everything. And Derek... he had no idea what to think about Derek, but he sure know what he felt about the Alpha. He readjusted himself again.

"I think Stiles fainted like a girl, then the Alpha dude and Stiles got huge gay hard ons for each other and now were all going running." Liam said, shrugging. Simple as that. No questions, no confusion. The world must be nice to a guy like Liam. Easy. 

"Wait," Stiles looked up from his hand. "He had a hard on too?"

"Dude, you could smell it--like, a lot." Scott shrugged, laughing and jerking his elbow into Hayden as she squished up her nose and buried her face in Liam's neck, reconfirming her love and need for him. Liam grabbed at her, and did the same thing.

"Dude." Stiles looked out into the woods, where Derek had disappeared. The hope was hot and gushing in his chest.

"Dude." Scott nodded. "Maybe thing'll get... you know," Scott leaned in close, faux-whispering, " _Intense."_

 


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I redid the last chapter, made it less rushed, if you want to read it.  
> Also, comments are--like, life itself. If you like it, or you just want to critique it (a lot of the reason why I post is 'cus I want to get better at writing) than please drop a comment :) THANNKK YOUUU ^^ Enjoy

"Dude." Scott nodded. "Maybe thing'll get... you know," Scott leaned in close, faux-whispering, " _Intense."_

"Gross McCall." Jackson snarled.

Stiles clenched his eyes briefly as Lydia's temper flared into a hot burst of perfume and oranges.  _Here we go_ , he thought.

Lydia smacked Jackson on the shoulder. Jackson showed his shock and upset with a snarl--which Lydia couldn't understand. She started to yell at him to not snarl at her. It started the usual chain reaction. Jackson's hurt made Scott and Hayden grow defensive. Scott tried to make peace keeper, which pissed Jackson and Lydia off to no end. Everyone started talking over one another, trying to point out that no, it wasn't gross, or that Lydia didn't need to hit him, or that Scott had started it with his comment, or that none of the fighting was even necessary. Liam jumped in to defend Hayden, which set Scott off because he thought Liam was "so totally whipped" which set everyone off because Scott McCall was literally the definition of whipped. 

Stiles sighed. For the first time he felt like an outsider among them. He used to watch these debates with bated breathe, used to jump in with his own opinions, yelling over everybody to get his own point across. There was fun in it. But, in another first, he understood both sides now--got what Jackson was trying to say, got how Lydia's anger was making her snap at simething inconsiquential, got how Scott was just trying to lighten the mood. To jump in now would be more like proper mediating than it would be honest anger or a desire to argue. It just wasn't worth it. The fights themselves, he knew, were necessary for them all to live together so closely. If he stepped in to actually stop it, there would just be a bigger, worse fight in a day or two.

He turned away, walked towards the back of the camper where Boyd wouldn't be able to see him and sat down on the road next to a huge pot-hole crater. A few seconds later, he heard someone walked up, and smelled Kira's strange ozone-and-electrical scent. She sat next to him and didn't say a word.

He found that he liked her. It was more than just her being good for the group--he actually liked her. A decision he hadn't made until he could smell her sitting next to him, feel the calm gentleness of her nature, like a cool pool. They sat in silence, listening to all the bickering in mutual understanding. He leaned into her, needing touch, and they just sat.

She'd shown up out of nowhere in a gas station in Skirall. Singled out Scott because he was the only one in the group who was oblivious to the tension everyone was feeling by then. He seemed the only one okay, not emotionally fried or even stressed. He constantly mentioned how awesome it was to be in Skiral, the only country in the world who had rebuilt their less necessary production factories for a new age consumerism. He marveled at the pure, unnecessary shit lying everywhere in stores and on street corners and in yards. He marveled at the clothes people wore, the hairstyles he saw. And the food, Scott absolutely loved the food choices. It seemed like he didn't even feel the terror everyone had at being caught by Hunters or cops. He didn't care that they'd almost died at least three times--in the woods with the Argents, in the border crossing from Beacon into Skirall, and at a random checkpoint on a dirt road inside Skirall's boarders. Didn't care that Stiles had been forced to traumatize his mind more by shooting more Hunters, by watching the 'wolves tear people throats out in self defense. None of it mattered. Just how 'awesome' everything looked.

Scott had been the only one not scowling, not jumpy, not sneering and arguing with every word. So it made sense that Kira singled him out. Made sense why the gentle, shy girl had such a crush on the awkward doof.

Stiles couldn't even remember what he'd been doing at the gas station. He'd probably just been standing around in tense observation, freaking out and watching everyone to make sure they were safe. He could remember what each and every one of them had been doing from the time they parked the car at the one-man pump on the dirt road till he realized Scott was missing. Lydia had been muttering to herself pumping gas next to him, bitching about tight confines, about the smell of the car, about the plates, about the bullet holes in the side door, about how every plan she could conceivably make was ruined because they kept shifting in anger and they were so obviously hoarding werewolves. Jackson had been trying to get at least three minutes alone, not stuffed into a five person car by the gas station doors, sneering at him own feet and thinking whatever thoughts a guy like Jackson Whittemore thought. Now that Stiles knew him better, it was probably self-deprecating thoughts. Liam and Hayden took the time to make out inside the car, apparently 'stinking it up with their hornyiness'.

Stiles could remember watching Scott walk inside the little attached convenience/grocery store to use the bathroom. He'd disappeared from sight and it had annoyed Stiles, because he'd wanted to keep an eye on them all. To alleviate that annoyance he'd watched Jackson lower himself into a crouch by the wall and dig his hands so harshly into his hair it had looked like he was trying to rip it all out by the strands. In a few minutes Lydia finished pumping the gas--and then Scott was just gone. Stiles had searched through the isles, the two bathroom stalls, in the beer cooler section. Nothing. He hadn't been in there, marveling at the different flavors of Doritos, or the ridiculous selection of sodas and beers. He hadn't been waiting out side for them. Just gone.

Stiles had freaked out, to put it mildly. He'd freaked out so bad Jackson shifted and had to hide in the car, ducking down to avoid windows as Lydia literally screeched. Back then Stiles still had the guns he'd been collecting from the Hunter confrontations. It was enough weaponry that every single person in the car could have had three guns, with a little to spare, but the ammo was ridiculously short. He'd kept a hand gun with three bullets in it tucked away in his jeans at all times, just in case it was necessary.

As Lydia flipped out at Jackson for wolfing out, Stiles had run out with the gun in his hands, ready to shoot. He expected to scout the area and just see Scott gone, never seen his brother again. He expected to have to run back to the car, cut his loses logically, and mourn his brother with 'what if's for the rest of his life. Or, worse, walk up to a Hunter standing ready with his brother lying dead in a pool of his own blood. What he hadn't expected was to see his brother talking excitedly to a small Asian girl in the weeded field behind the gas station. 

He'd pointed the gun up, yelling at her to get away from Scott. Scott had jumped forward--Kira had screamed. It could have attracted enough attention that when Scott whined to put the gun down, all wolfed out, Stiles had to listen just to get his brother in the damn car and away. He kept talking the entire way to the car about how Kira was 'cool', wasn't a hunter, was really nice. Stiles hadn't given a damn. He honestly believed she was a Hunter, looking to draw out her victims with honey rather than vinegar. She hadn't seemed freaked out by Scott wolfing out, and had followed them to a car despite Stiles frantically waving a gun at her and yelling to back the fuck up.

Scott refused to leave unless they left with Kira. Always stupidly trustful and suborn, he said he'd stand right there, in the open, until Stiles let Kira in the car. Out of desperation he'd shoved the girl onto his lap and they'd sped off.

It turned out to be a blessing in disguise. She was honestly the only way they probably lived through Skirall. Admitting she was a Kitsune, she led them all to her house where her Kitsune mother lived. When she ended up showing them what she was, her eyes turned into golden fire and her body glowed with heat and crackling electricity. He'd freaked out pretty bad, her being on his lap and all, and absolutely refused to trust her, regardless of the fact that they were all in the same boat. But the more she talked, the more he realized how fucked he and the others were, how much they needed her and her's moms help. So though he didn't trust her, they went to her house and stayed their to rest a few days. Hiding the car was absolutely necessary, what with it's Beacon plates and it's bull holes. And they got actual time away from each other, showers, nights in a bed without the paranoia of constant vigilance. Those few days had given him enough time to try and trust her, and for Scott to learn the Yukimura's entire life story, and for Lydia to use the Yukimura's connections to make a deal with a shady gang biker named Jax who would give them a camper for all their guns. All of that was enough to trust her, and even let her come along when she decided that she, too, wanted to live in the safety of Hale.

A month they'd been in the camper together. He'd trusted her to drive while he slept. Trusted her to teach Jackson her sword play. Trusted her to enough piss in the bushes with his back turned to her. She'd cooked food when it was her turn, and pumped gas, and even sometimes decided directions on how to evade road blocks and Hunting parties. But before he could smell her--he'd never once thought 'I like this girl'.

Maybe he'd make a better werewolf than he did a human. A more trusting one. All these senses, and he was pretty sure he'd be able to tell if he was in danger.

The argument everyone was having was just getting heated now, revving up to be one of those hour long screaming matches. He pressed his nose into her neck, something he'd never done to her personally, but had seen the other 'wolves do lots of times. He'd had it done to himself, he knew how awkward it could get, but she accepted it with the simple grace she accepted everything else, and wrapped an arm around his shoulder to stabilize him against her.

"So... do I look any different?" Stiles asked, curious, when the arguing got to be too much to listen to.

"Silver eyes--that's about it." Kira said, gently. "Hasn't gone away once since you woke up. I think they won't ever go away."

He nodded, taking her word for it.

"Is it... scary?" She asked.

He laughed into her neck. "Less scary than being hunted, scarier than Lydia."

She full body shivered. "More than Lydia? Really?"

"She's not that bad." He teased. "Once you get to know her."

"I'll take your word for it."

They sat like that till the argument was over. Then Lydia came stomping over in her heels, anger bubbling at her scent, but a catharsis was there too in what she _didnt_ smell like. No more oranges peppered her with fear fuelled rage. "Well?" She snapped. "We just going to sit around all day or are we actually going to leave?" Without waiting for a reply she stormed into the camper.

"She scares me." Kira murmured, getting up.

"Yeah." Stiles stood, stretched. "She scares everyone. It's her charm."

He walked around the side of the camper as Kira entered it, joining everyone. He looked to Boyd, who hadn't moved at all, and was still faced sideways, watching the clouds. The sight of him struck Stiles as kind of beautiful, the lone, large man with the perfect physic standing and watching the world with ease. He wanted to join Boyd, even. Stand with him and feel the calmness of his figure like he'd felt Kira's gentleness. As the wind shifted and changed, he could smell the guy. He smelled like many people, all of their scent clinging to his skin, making him solitary but concomitant at the same time. It would be no trouble at all to stand with him and watch the sky change hues, watch the clouds roll by. He had no idea how a scent itself could make him want that, but he found an instant liking to the man. Like he'd finally found the liking for Kira.

"Hey," he said. He felt the others still, waiting inside the camper, but his eyes were on the lone wolf, who only tilted his head to the side to show he was listening. "Cmon man, we don't know where were going." Stiles said lamely. "Hop in."

From inside he could hear Jackson snarl.  _No,_ it seemed to say.  _Our camper, our space. No._ Liam whined in agreement. Hayden echoed the pain, voice torn in empathy rather than in agreement with Jackson's snarl. 

Stiles replied in kind. His throat tickled with the small, low rumble. It only said  _trust._

The others stayed quiet. Jackson huffed, relinquishing control, giving Stiles the verbal growl equivalent of  _dont make me say i told you so_ but ultimately agreed. 

Stiles watched the lone wolf that was not alone, not in the way that mattered, turn to him. Questioning. Stiles tilted his head back towards the camper, an offer.

He did not expect the man to be so big. Bigger than Derek physically, bigger than anyone else in Stiles's little group, he had to duck to get inside the trailer, and stay ducked so as not to hit his head on the roof. It reminded Stiles of an adult in a doll house. He wondered if Boyd didn't turn sideways to walk through the bench and the kitchenette to get into the bedroom if he'd break anything.

"You know how to drive?"

The man shook his head, silent. 

"Well, I'll drive. Get in shotgun and direct me." Stiles threw himself down into the driver seat, cranking the seat back to allow more room for his legs since Lydia was the last one to drive. Boyd was more careful in sitting, as if he was afraid the seat would break under him. Maybe it would. He had to weigh at least 200 in pure muscle. As it was, the camper tilted wildly with his every step, sinking to the right as he sat.

Stiles started the engine. It drowned off the small chatter of his pack, their little subvocal language and verbal one. He heard the pop, and smelled Doritos, and knew Scott had opened another bag. Even though with Kira's help they'd bought at least twenty five family sized bags, this was probably one of the last bag. Stiles watched Boyd wrinkled his nose at the heavy fake cheese smell that invaded the place and laughed. "So, did you transition too? How'd you get to Hale?" He asked, using the bar to put the car in drive.

"We were deep in Beacon." He offered, when the man said nothing. "Had to go around Palcone, into Skiral and across the Militia Boarder."

"Sounds tough." His voice was deep and smooth.

Stiles frowned, but it quickly turned into a smile as he looked over his shoulder at Lydia, who had decided to stand between the two driver's seats, balancing herself with one hand on each chair back. He could smell her eagerness for answers, too, and wondered if she'd have any more luck with the guy than him. "Ready darlin'?" He asked.

She shot him a glare. "Don't be cheeky with me. I'm still annoyed with you." Her unsaid 'we will talk about this' was obvious. 

"Awesome." He hit the gas, getting a little pleasure in punching it hard enough she had to stabilize herself with a backwards step. He slowed though. As a general rule they never went faster than 20 miles an hour, especially on the Militia boarder where the roads were nothing but huge cracks, weeds, old cars and cratered pot holes. It looked like the one in Hale was in just as bad of a shape. So he went slow, weaving the trailer between bad options and worse options. 

"Have'nt heard much about Hale." He said lightly.  "Or about werewolves in general. Whats it like up here? How do things operate?"

He looked to the wolf, Boyd, who was watching the road but paying attention to Liam and Scotts bro-talk about which Mountain Dew flavor was better, since they had no actual Mountain Dew to drink. Liam was a big believer in Code Red, and Scott was forever in love with the original. "We're secretive for a reason." Boyd said after a second, sweet and simple.

Stiles frowned, swerving the trailer sharply to avoid a huge crack in the road without getting the back tire into a pothole. "I thought the treaties protected you from invasions? You keep wolves in Hale, no Hunters come after you kinda thing."

"If only the world was so simple."

He found himself frowning harder. "Are we bringing trouble to your door?"

"Something feels like you  _are_ the trouble."

Lydia, balancing behind them, laughed. "Oh I like you." She said. She reached over and patted Boyd on the shoulder, either oblivious or uncaring to the way the wolf tensed at her easy affection. Stiles wondered if he would have made the same mistake, if he hadn't changed. She moved her hand away quickly though.

Boyd directed him through the road, which was a straight shot for the most part. The only direction he gave was to tell them to pull off to the side when they got to a big warehouse like building five miles in. There was nothing but shitty road and trees ahead, nothing but shitty roads and trees behind. The warehouse was the only thing remotely interesting, and it looked old. It was obvious were the people of Hale had to fix the leaky roof, or the caving in walls with patchwork pieces of metal. It honestly looked like one of the safe-houses in Kira's zombie movies. A windowless, dilapidated piece of shit building with nothing around it. Was this Hale? Was this all there was? Or did it just merely reflect the state Hale was in? If it did--Stiles was going to miss the shitty house he'd lived in with his dad.

"Ill open it up, just drive this thing inside. You can leave the keys wherever, no one will take it."

"This is it? The safe place everyone was talking about?" Jackson sneered at the warehouse from his place on the bench.

"No." Boyd stood, rocking the camper. Without another word he left, dipping the entire thing sideways as he stepped off. Stiles watched him  walk up to the building and open the side door with a keypad, then disappear into the warehouse.

"There's electricity, at least." Lydia said, taking Boyd's seat. "Keypad." She nodded her head towards the door Boyd had closed behind him.

"I can't see a power plant out here--they might have to make their own." Stiles frowned, imagining himself taking shifts on a bike so someone could have hot water or see at night.

"Are you sure were safe here with these people?" Scott asked, voice anxious.

Liam hugged Scott for comfort, their scents suddenly mixing and calming.

"Monsters or beasts, Scott." Stiles said lightly. A reiteration of a very old, very well worn conversation between them. He was worried what Hale would be like, everyone was. But Scott thought home was actually safe for them. He kept saying 'wouldn't it be better to just go home? We've been gone long enough, maybe they'd have forgotten about us'--which would always start the same arguments that lasted into the next day. And Stiles would always say the same thing 'we either live with monsters hunting us constantly, and end up becoming monsters, or we live with beasts and see where it goes'. It always got Scott going on a rant. About how none of them had to succumb to the vileness of Hunters, how none of them had to kill.

This time, Scott said nothing.

The industrial door, like a garage door, opened up slowly, Boyd yanking on the heavy chain to get it up. It was dark inside, so Stiles went slow. As the shadow of the garage darkened the trailer, he followed Boyd's directions to go to the very right. Stiles parked between a wall and a dark, car-shaped shadow that looked low and sleek and expensive. He cut the engine, leaving the keys hanging off the gear-shift.

He and everyone else sat there for a while, no one moving except for Scott, who was shoving chips into his mouth between inhales. Finally, Lydia had enough. "Everyone grab your things." She ordered, standing. "Food, personal items, whatever you can grab." None of them had very much--each one about the equivalent to a duffel bag, and all of it was packed away nice and tidy in their designated cubbyholes and cupboards. It took about a minute to grab all the leftover food--mostly what Kira called 'junk food', things like chips, pastries, sodas, and the occasional bag of insta rice--that hadn't been eaten yet. Everyone moved quickly, and it was easy squeezing around people, reaching around them to grab a random sock or a tube of lipstick that had gotten loose and rolled. When they were done, things got quiet again, and everyone stood, watching Stiles and Lydia stand by the bedroom, looking to see if they'd missed anything.

"I don't want to go." She confessed, staring at the bed that had been stripped. The mattress was huge, could contain four of them at a time, all squeezed together and fighting for room or pillow space. 

Him either. This had been home for a brief time, but it had been so nice. Just them, and the road, and the thoughts of the future."Tough shit." Stiles said. He leaned over and kiss her forehead, and shoved everyone out before him. They met Boyd by the door he'd used to get in, the huge industrial door already closed. He nodded to all of them, grabbed the awkward shape of the duvet Jackson was trying to hold with all his things--and told them to follow him.

All together, they followed Boyd into the woods.

 


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very long time coming. But ta-dah!   
> Stiles realizes that he's changed, and is forced to face it.

“Are we there yet?”

Stiles bit down on the vibrations trying to erupt from his chest and into his throat—but Jackson let his go, the heavy night air thrumming with his frustrated snarl. “No, dumbshit. We’re obviously not there yet.”

Stiles followed Kira’s path around a huge tree, trying to take in the strange scent of her trail to calm him as he moved through total darkness. The ‘woods’ here, in Hale, were nothing like the woods in Beacon Hills. There, the tress had been thin, usually crooked, and most of it was a dense sea of dead leaves. Here, the trees were so thick that their canopies blocked out any starlight that could have shone through, where rain water dripped from the sky, having collected who knows how long. Everything was darkness and moss and pine needles and the smell of living leaves as well as crushed, dying leaves. And even though no animal had dared get close to the ‘wolves path directly, he could smell their old trails, smell the rabbits hiding in burrows, smell snakes, foxes, owls, smaller birds, ravens, deer, badgers—hell, sometimes he came across an animal trail he couldn’t even identify by smell alone.

It was new and different. But after five or six hours of walking through woods so dense he could hardly see in front of his face, he’d learned to grow bored of it. All he could do was trail after Boyd, walking with one pack member or the other as they stepped over dead logs, ducked under low hanging branches, avoiding a random cascades of water from high above, and tried to find their way to Hale. Their only respite from the walking was the small breaks Boyd let them have—mostly because Lydia said her feet hurt and refused to move. Kira would then educate them all on the mushroom population she saw. And Liam and Hayden would sneak off to get some alone time. And Lydia would bitch about not bringing hiking boots. Once, he and Scott had gotten everyone to hug one of the random trees they were sitting next to. Even with all seven of them hugging it, hand touching hand, they couldn’t surround the monstrosity.

That had been a while ago. They’d had to camp in the woods to sleep twice now, their exhaustion getting the better of them. He couldn’t tell if it was night or day in the woods—sometimes if they got to a bare stretch of trees, they’d see that the sky had turned into a dark, omnipresent green instead of pitch black, but it was hard to tell how many days had actually passed on that alone. All Stiles knew was that he’d never walked so far in his life.

At Jackson’s low snarl, Hayden bit out, “Don’t snap at him!”

“Yeah?” Jackson slurred, wolfed out. “Whachu gunna do ‘bout it?” He and the others had been totally shifted for the past day or two, none of them seeing a reason to hide their glowing eyes or their strange hair growth. Because of it, his smell—all of the pack’s smell—was stronger than before. It scented the air around them like a radius. It had bothered Stiles enough that he’d walked as far away from them as he could, weaving in the darkness till he felt so isolated he’d screamed. Loud and long and burning, he’d stopped dead in his tracks, unable to hear or smell anything but the wild life around him, and roared up at the dark sky till tears leaked out of his eyes and there was no air in his lungs.

Boyd had found him. Lead him back to the others as they waited. All wolfed out, they had about a half mile radius of pure scent. Jackson’s in particular was strong, mostly because it was all roiling emotions like tension, impatience, hurt furry and restlessness.

Every time he got a whiff of it, Stiles wished he was back out in the lonely woods with nothing but frightened animals and scampering bugs for company, listening to the way the trees creaked high above him, the way the leaves shook—and felt that horrible isolation.

“We obviously aren’t there yet.” Stiles said, trying to get closer to Kira, to have her gentle scent mask Jackson’s volatile one. “We weren’t there ten minutes ago, or twenty, or an hour ago—or even two days ago. We’re. Not. There. So shut up.”

A round of snarls went through the pack, so low and far apart that he could feel them against his skin more than really hear them in his ears. The scents of anger and defensiveness and hurt made his own snarl rise up.

“Stiles. Not helping.” Lydia said. She was so blind out in the woods she couldn’t even walk, so members of the pack took turns with her hands on their shoulders, leading her through less complicated trails around the huge trees. Boyd had been the only one to not help her, and none of them had really expected or trust him to.

Leading her himself had been hard. He’d felt unbelievably tense were her hands on his shoulders, listening to her gripe when he walked over a burrow and forgot to mention it. Her ignorance pissed him off to know end—but then, like the others, everything was pissing him off. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t hear. She couldn’t understand the constant unspoken communication each and every one of the ‘wolves participated in. Sure, she could prattle on with Kira about the local mushroom population—but she still didn’t _understand._ And it pissed him off that he couldn’t share this with her. Couldn’t even talk about the new things he was feeling because she’d just give him a blank stare any time he tried.

He couldn’t fault her for being human, he knew that. Just like he couldn’t have been faulted for having been human… which he was slowly realizing he wasn’t anymore. He’d changed, in an instant he’d changed beyond her understanding and it pissed him off. Pissed him off that he could have been in the same situation she was in. Pissed him off that until his change he hadn’t realized the fundamental differences between himself and the werewolves he’d sacrificed his life to protect. Pissed him off that he now had no idea what to do with himself or the things he understood--or what it led to.

Stiles used a new burst of speed he hadn’t been capable of three days ago and ran past Kira, to where Boyd’s unusual, multiple scent was leading the rest of the wolves. The man was an enigma. Never showing annoyance, never tiring, never once giving into the pack’s bickering, he lead them all into the dark.

“How far do we have?” Stiles asked. To his left, Liam and Hayden were bickering about how many miles they’d walked—and Lydia was bitching out Scott for leading her into a pile of animal shit, and Jackson was complaining to everyone with a nose how displeased he was. To be near silent, unreadable Boyd was a relief.

“It would be faster if we ran.” Boyd said, again not answering a question directly. It was a quirk of his that sometimes gave more information than Stiles had originally bargained for, but never the information he wanted.

“Yeah, well that would be a little hard, considering.” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. “Lydia can’t exactly go running after werewolves.” His bitterness colored his voice. Though he couldn’t really see Boyd looking at him, he knew the strange wolf was.

“Yes.” Boyd said, “She would be left behind.”

“Do you get a lot of humans here?” Stiles asked, when listening to the bickering behind him became too much.

“She isn’t human.”

Stiles frowned. “Do you get a lot of humans, banshees, kitsunes, vampires, or like, anything else besides common everyday werewolves here?”

“This is Hale.” Boyd smell shifted as he shrugged, his huge shoulders displacing air currents.

Stiles honestly thought that Boyd would go silent again, and was prepared with another question on his tongue when Boyd surprised him and kept talking. “The world outside of these woods hates the supernatural. Humans, for some reason, fear what they can’t relate to and shun it and attack it instead of trying to understand it. They kill instead of compromise. Likewise, they can’t seem to empathize with anything they don’t care about, and they seem to care very little about anything that doesn’t directly help their lives.

“Families are based on a nuclear model with humans. Only mom, dad, and child are cared for intimately. And it’s considered unusual, or at least very generous, when that isn’t the case. Elderly are left to live with other elderly in home where strangers are paid to negligently watch over them. Friends are left ostracized when a significant other is found. Strangers problems are considered burdens. And nature… well, nature is an inconvenience, a thing to mastered above all else. Humans are the most unnatural creatures this world has born—and yet, they rule because they fear, dominate, and attack anything that doesn’t agree with them.

“To a supernatural, to the lycanthropes who have evolved to be better than humans, to the vampires, the fey creatures like your friend over there, or the mythical deities like your fox, then Hale is a haven. It is a place where cohesion is a way of life. Because this is Hale. And because we aspire to be better than humanity.”

“A nice sentiment.” Stiles said, realizing several things at once. One, that the Hales weren’t ignorant of the world outside of Hale. Two, that they were ridiculously idealistic. “But none of us here are human, but we bicker all the time. We’re so close we can’t cope with it—“ He thought of his screaming in the woods, and shuddered as the smells of his pack attacked him. “I’m invaded by their feelings every second of the day. I can’t even escape them in my dreams. How can Hale ‘wolves claim peace when… when you’re constantly assaulted by everyone’s needs and emotions?” He thought about Boyd’s strange scent. How his smell was literally the embodiment of other people. He wondered at it. Wondered at the strangeness that was Boyd, his aloofness, his lack of emotional response.

“Do you really expect to shed a lifetime of humanity in a second?” Boyd asked. It wasn’t an answer. As Stiles frustration bubbled up, Boyd’s own scent seemed to come out as he shifted, his scent sending literal waves of peace through the air around Stiles. It pissed him off worse. How easy it was for Boyd to be so calm and placating pissed him off. If what Boyd was preaching was peace among everyone, it would leave no room for personality. “Like everything worth having, you have to learn.”

“So—what? We learn to sing kumbaya, we become docile, and then we’ll be accepted into your peace loving fucking pack? Literally learn to shed our individual temperaments to become zen masters like you?” He hissed out.

“That’s not what I said.” Boyd’s voice was deeper, his thrum carrying across the air so suddenly the entire pack in hearing distance was aware of their conversation and listening in. “You won’t fit in like the others will. You have all of our senses but none of our instincts. Things will be different for you.”

That hurt. That hurt so much that Stiles couldn’t even speak. Furious, he let Boyd walk ahead of him, then slowly let the others pass him. He sought out the scent that comforted him the most—made him feel at home, instead of just recognizing peace and gentleness. Scott was leading Lydia very carefully through the woods, seeming to take great care in directing her around obstacles so he was nearly a mile behind everyone else.

As soon as they were close Stiles surged into his brother, shoving his face into Scott’s neck and knocking him off balance—and Lydia, too. Stiles hugged into his brother, smelling home, smelling late Friday nights playing video games till the crack of dawn, smelling Mellissa’s cooking, even his dad. “Hey—dude. What’s got you so riled up?” Too far behind to have heard even a whisper of Boyd and his conversation, Scott rubbed his scent into Stiles’ shoulder and tried to calm him.

“What the fuck is going on?” Lydia asked, staring to the right of them like a blind woman, her hands on her hips.

“I don't know what to do.” Stiles said, his face still shoved into Scott’s throat, taking deep inhale of a calming drug.

 

He feared. He felt that familiar ache of rebellious anger flush under his skin just like he had in Beacon. He wanted to go further out into the woods and screaming till there was no air left in his body, and everything was still and silent from the wake of his furry.

Stiles was many things. He was obsessive. He was spastic. He was guilty. He was self-deprecating and fragile and sarcastic. He liked to view himself as a hero, to explain away his need to rebel against every restriction put upon him, to explain away how he took care of everyone he cared about in an attempt to not focus on himself. It kept him sane. Only now, everyone was safe. Scott was safe. Jackson and Liam and Hayden were safe, even Kira and Lydia. The only thing left to do was integrate themselves into the Hale life and live…. Live by somehow giving up a thing Stiles had considered so vital to himself he hadn’t even considered it a part of him. And if what Boyd was saying was true, it wouldn’t come easy to him. Lydia could be excused because of her human senses, like a person would explain away the rude inquires of a child that didn’t know what personal boundaries were. She could touch a shoulder of a werewolf and not even realize that he was uncomfortable by the contact. But Stiles would know. He’d know, and he’d not know what to do otherwise. He was stuck in a limbo, given all the information he could possibly muster but with no idea what to do with it. No idea how to breach the gap between him and other people, especially when those people were so different from him.

How could he belong anywhere when he didn't even recognize himself anymore?

He wished his magic had never changed him. He thought Agathe was scary--this was worse. He was being given an opportunity to be with his friends and realize they were all growing apart from him, instead of just leaving.

“Wait, what?” Scott asked, totally confused. “Did we loose Boyd? What are you talking about?”

“Stiles?” Lydia’s hands searched for him in the dark, making contact with his elbow in a feathery light touch. When she had him, she grabbed him harder, her fingers curling in his hoodie sleeve. “Tell me what's wrong.” Her voice was high, tense. Oranges filled through the air.

“What are you talking about?” Scott asked, rubbing Stiles’ head furiously to mark away the anxiety Stiles felt.

“Explain, Stiles.”

“It can't do this."

“Bullshit, Stiles.” Lydia said, moving closer and putting her head on his shoulder. “You've wanted your magic to do a lot of things in the past, I've seen you try to use it before. But it never worked--not till we came to Hale. It changed you, Stiles." He flinched at that, which made Scott rub harder, and made Lydia lift her head. “It literally made it easier for you to be in Hale. You think I'm not scared? You think in last few days of walking around in these black woods that I haven’t worried about how I won’t fit in? I’m more of an outsider than you are, Stilinski.

“Beacon is different from Hale. We won’t have to _hide_ , Stiles. It’s a gift, not a curse. Just be you, and let the change happen. Even your magic agrees it's necessary.”

“It’s more complicated.” He whined.

“How?” She demanded. “How is it more complicated? You’re making a huge thing out of nothing, like always. For once, stop using that damn head of yours and fake it till you make it.”

“That won’t work with werewolves.” Stiles said, lifting his own head to stare over Scott’s shoulder. “They’ll be able to tell I don’t fit in.”

She was silent long enough for Scott to sigh. "What would you even have to fake?"

"This place, Hale... it's going to be different, Scotty. We're going to have to merge with them."'

"So?" Scott asked. Stiles frowned, his annoyance showing in his scent enough for Scott to keep going. "Seriously--of course were going to have to merge with them. Of course it's going to be new, and weird for a second. But at least you won't have to go to Agathe! I mean, imagine how weird  _that_ would be for you. It's like--like expecting everything to go a certain way and freaking out it's not going that way but also really worried you aren't a certain way, and dude, it's just heart ache you don't need. You're different. You've changed. So have I. I know how freaky it is to suddenly feel like you don’t know yourself and for everything around you is freaky unfamiliar. But there are still similarities. We’re still best buds. Just hold onto what you know. Hold onto the fact that your my brother." Scott shoved his shoulder into Stiles's, knocking him and Lydia off her balance a bit. "We got this man. We're together. I've got your back."

Stiles looked into Scott’s eyes. Saw the golden glow and the reflection of Stiles’s silver glow. But it was still Scott he was looking at.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stteeaaammmy? steamy  
>  (also, trigger warning--drugs in this chapter)

Exhaustion tugged at his body—but he knew he’d never be able to sleep. The idea of another night under the dense, swaying leaves, only this time with the comfort of a bed… it was like a mockery. A teasing homage to both his new, weird life among savage werewolves and his old, despondent life among humans. So no, Stiles didn’t want to lay in a bed and wait for his exhaustion to take him away. He wanted his dad. He wanted to sit in his living room couch and talk to his dad about this wild adventure he was now calling a life. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not even with Lydia, who was avoiding him since his transition. He knew her well enough that he if tried to crawl into bed with her and force the situation, she’d only freeze him out harder. She’d talk to him when she was ready. Jackson wasn’t really a talking-buddy either, since talking to him was like trying to bash your head into a wall and wanting it to be pleasurable. Kira was too quiet and self-conscious. Liam and Hayden were out bumping nasties. So that left only Scott. Scott, who in terms of hashing out emotions was probably the best options of them all, outside his dad. It seemed like he really needed to talk, too. He’d grown quiet and withdrawn since the whole ‘mating’ talk.

 

Scott was still upset about his careless comment with Allison. Like Lydia, things were strained between them. But unlike Lydia, Stiles knew that talking to him would help alleviate it, not make it worse. So he walked over to Scott, who was sitting in the wicker chairs “outside” under the stars. He ignored Stiles as he sat in his own wicker chair.

 

For a long, tense moment, Stiles had no idea what to say, but their argument started because of Allison, so the mending should start with her, too. “Do you think she’s your mate?” He asked, looking up towards the glittering stars. There were so many it always amazed him. It made the sky glow.

 

He felt Scott grow stiffer, felt the silence stretch on until, finally, his brother said, “I’ve been trying to figure that you. I mean, I don’t even know what mates are. We could be mates, bro.” Stiles laughed. “Seriously. I mean, I love her, sure, I love her like crazy. But forever?” He sighed heavily. “The way she looked at me that night. The way she screamed—“ Stiles would never forget the way she screamed. “I hadn’t done anything to her, you know? I hadn’t—but—“ Scott was too polite to say it.

 

“Your only mistake was going to her that night, instead of going to your mom or staying at my house. I was the one who shot her family. I’m the one who hurt her. But she blamed you.” Called him a monster, cursed him.

 

“Yeah.” Scot whipped away the tear that hadn’t fallen onto his cheek yet. “Yeah, it sucks. We can’t change it though. I can’t fix it. Like you said, I’ll probably never see her again. She’s home, so far away, and a Hunter… and I’m…” Another heavy sigh, this time with a break in it. Stiles kept his eyes on the stars, to give his brother privacy. “I mean, that’s not what mates are supposed to be, right? They’re supposed to be unconditional love.”

 

Stiles nodded. “I miss them.” He said, thinking of unconditional love. “I miss them so goddman much it hurts.”

 

“But they’re safe,” Scott said it with such a feverish belief that it made Stiles smile.

 

“Are they?” He asked. “I thought it would be better to leave them there. But I was so fucked out of my mind that night, so damn worried about getting you and the others out. I know the programs, I know how Hunters operate. When they can’t get the transitioners they want, they go after the families. The usual code dictates they kill anyone in the same gene pool, even though it’s been proven that it does nothing. A scare tactic that Gerard really fucking loves, I guess. But I keep thinking, leaving them was a mistake. If they were here, I would know they’re safe.” And they’d be able to help in the way only parents could.

 

“Stiles?”

 

“Yeah, dude?”

 

“Don’t.”

 

Stiles nodded. “Right. I just, I hope for your sake that Allison was just your first love. I hope you find someone here who…” He paused, trying to think of a less melodramatic way of saying ‘find your soulmate’. “Just fucking does it for you, man.”

 

“Yeah. You too.” Scott looked over at him, he could feel his brother’s eyes boring into his head. “You seem really into that Derek guy.”

 

Stiles laughed, bleak. “I’m that obvious—of course, I’m that obvious. I like ‘em unavailable. It’s my type. It lets me be desperate and wanton and give lavish gifts and love from afar. I put them on a pedestal they can never reach, and then never have to face real rejection because they won’t even give me a chance.”

 

“Masochist.”

 

“Hopeless romantic.”

 

Stiles looked over, a smile on his face to match Scott’s. And just like that, they were good. They were back to them. It gave Stiles a thought, and he watched as Scott’s smile turned into a worried expression. “What?” He asked, sitting up. “What are you thinking? I don’t like that face.”

 

“What face?”

 

“Your face. What are you planning?”

 

Still grinning, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the tin-foil he’d been holding onto for a while now. His grin grew wider as Scott began to echo it, and yeah, Stiles could see how it would be a worrying smile. If their parents were here—Melissa in particular—she’d slap the back of their heads and go on one of her mother-ranks, which never ceased to make that tight, ugly place in his chest ease up just a little. “How about a little trip to the fifth dimension?” He asked, waving it in front of Scott. “Get a new perspective on all this weird shit?”

 

“Nooo—we shouldn’t.” But Scott’s grin only grew wider on his dopey face. “We’re not in the right headspace. We don’t have OJ. Dude—were in the middle of the freaking woods.”

 

“Maybe we can search through those woods to find an orange tree, eh?”

 

“Fuck.” Scott snatched up the tin foil, and Stiles got up, leaning against the table next to him to watch his brother expertly open the smushed tinfoil. With his claws, he held up two tabs by their edges, then popped them into his lower gum line. He handed Stiles the tin-foil like a plate on his palm as he said, “Is this from Daehler’s sheet? I love his shit, he always double dips.”

 

Stiles lifted the tin foil like a cheer, before grabbing two of the squares with the edges of his nails. The cotton had the image of some kind of incomplete, geometrical design on it. Some blue and reds. He took the two tabs and put them under his tongue.

 

“Saved it for like, ever, just for a special occasion.” He said.

 

“Yeah, once the dude died our contact kind of dried up.”

 

“Shame, but he was creepy.”

 

“Dude—you can’t say that about the dead.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“He’s… you know. Dead.”

 

“So? He’s dead. When he was living he snuck into people’s houses and into the girl’s locker room to take fucked up photos of chicks. Remember that creepy-ass shrine he had to Allison in his closet?”

 

“Okay. But still dead.” Scott rolled his eyes.

 

Stiles felt a nervousness in his stomach—one he knew would turn into a gentle stomach ache in about thirty or so minutes. But he pushed it down for now. He was going to have a good night. He was in a place. He was with his family. The possibilities were endless.

 

“You’re not even being sensitive for the right reasons!” He said, laughing.

 

“I’m being sensitive for all the right reasons,” Scott said, tapping his temple. And off they went.

 

 

 

There was an ocean inside the ground.

 

He touched the soil, seeing his weird fleshy skin touch perfect dirt. He had a lot of colors on his skin. Pinks and peaches and reds little dots of purples and blues—but the purples and blues were never there unless he was looking at it just right. And his fingerprints. Damn. They were like wavey creases, like a maze, which, when he focused more, he realized were actual canyons, etched away into his skin with imperfect bumps. They made him unique. They gave him an identity. Humans were kind of awesome like that; made from scratch to be so similar, but because they were made from scratch, they were all unique. His fingerprints were different from everybody else’s.

 

What was under his weird, multicolored, imperfect flesh was even cooler. It was like he had his skin, then a membrane, then him. A pulsing, flowing, marvelous thing hidden. A world unto itself.

 

But the dirt! Fuck! Look at that dirt. It was real, didn’t even try to hide itself under layers. It was out there in the open, housing the growing metropolis of organisms that all fed on one another, depending on one another. With single, unnoticed frames of time, it created and destroyed life at the same time. Flourished. It was a miracle. Dirt was fucking life.

 

It was also really cool feeling. How had he never noticed how awesome dirt was before now? How vital it was to everything. Like a flood of continuity. An ocean—an every moving, ever-changing ocean. A thing that was alive. More alive than a thing in a fleshy prison, unique but cohesive. Emotion incarnate. That was dirt. It felt. He was sure of it. It loved and hated and sorrowed and—

 

“Stiles?”

 

Stiles looked up and felt his world shatter and recreate itself around a single figure. It made him feel weird. His head bobbed like it was surprised that he was suddenly staring up. He didn’t remember the transition. Didn’t remember staring down, then how he looked back up. He simply was. And now he felt weird. Empty. What had he just been doing? What had he just thought? It was important, he knew, but world away from him now. A lifetime ago—but it was only seconds ago. And here in front of him was Kira. A brand new world. A person. She was made of flesh, too, but under her strange, intoxicatingly different skin was a world made of glowing fire and animalistic savageness. She was burying it, he knew, for him and for the others and mainly for herself. She was scared.

 

Behind her, like a backdrop created just for her was swaying patterns of foxes and symbols that circled lazily on fossilized life.

 

She made a motion. He realized she was biting her lip. “I know your, uh, doing something, but—“ Right. He was doing something. What was he doing? A long time ago—eons ago, when he was still at the Peak—he and Scott had been screaming In the Air Tonight at the top of their lungs. Singing had felt really good. Songs had felt really good. Everyone’s anger had been funny until it hadn’t. Now Stiles was playing in the dirt. “Am I being loud?” He whispered. Things were loud. He wasn’t loud—but he was kind of being drowned out by the sounds of leaves right now. It was like they were chattering high above him, swaying in the wind and knocking against each other, brushing against one another to share what was happening across the forest floors.

 

“No, no.” Kira said, drawing his attention back to her and her world of fire. Right, he’d been having a conversation. Such a weird thing, conversations. People talked to each other all the time, saying and pronouncing sound they’d learned since birth. Theoretically, it meant nothing. Not really. Words weren’t like growls. Words weren’t like chattering leaves. To prove it, he growled at her in the tune of In the Air Tonight, to let her know he understood here, that he was focused on her—but also a million other things all at once. Time ceased to matter, so time ceased to exist. He was here, but he was also back with Scott, he was also ahead into the next hour, feeling that beautiful moment of when the cid would turn from crazy thoughts to a warm, hazy feeling in his body that he would float on for a day or two in perfect happiness. “Oh, uh…” She frowned. She shouldn’t frown—so he stopped. “You’re calm. Very calm. Quiet. It’s Scott—“

 

“I love Scott.” He sat up in the dirt. “Do you think he’s my mate?”

 

“Wait, what?”

 

“We love each other. We’re bro’s forever.” It felt wrong though, and instantly Stiles thought of Derek. Beautiful Derek. Growly, angry Derek.

 

“Uh.” Stiles swallowed his saliva, feeling and smelling the weird mucus between his nose and throat that coated the inside of him. He couldn’t make it go away. Had it always been there? It was always there when he took psychedelics—but the rest of the time? “Scott’s gone,” Kira said, apparently deciding to get to the point. It cut through the circles in his head. Made him realize what she wanted.

 

He looked around himself. His new home was so beautiful that it made the tears fall down his cheeks. Tears—why were people afraid of crying? Especially in front of others. Crying was a beautiful thing. It wasn’t sad. Not that he shouldn’t be able to share his sadness too It was just so awestruckingly beautiful, his new home. The dead wood they lived in was like old fossils. The climbing vines like new life come to greet the dead and accept it into its folds. The trees all talked above, and where they didn’t talk, was the glowing brightness of stars. And his family was up there, in the bunks. Lydia was sleeping softly. Jackson was trying and failing to not listen to Kira and Stiles’s conversation. And all around it, the beautiful patterns of life that glowed and changed colored and seemed so very important, though he couldn’t fathom why. But nowhere, in all of it, was Scott. “Right.” He stood up. “I’ll go look.

 

“No, Stiles, that’s not what I—“

 

“Then why tell me?” He would have been happy, absorbed into the dirt until the sun rose up. Such a weird thing, telling someone something and not expecting them to act upon it. Words could be lies, but words impacted the actions between people. Changed things. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, to show her his newfound affection for her—and turned to walk into the woods. He wondered, for a second, if he would actually find Scott or if he would wander the woods until he got lost.

 

It didn’t matter, really. He’d come across someone eventually. He wasn’t hungry, wouldn’t be for a few hours. And here there were trees, as ancient as the world. Their leaves communicated with the wind to tell the other trees of tree-things. Honest communication. The dead leaves fell to the ground to be walked on and crushed, absorbed into the dirt to be degraded and made into more important food for the roots of the trees. From leaves to roots. From air and life and speech to death and regrowth and the giving of substances. Cycles were everywhere he looked. Even carved into the trees in three interlocked spirals.

 

Smells cycled, too. People who were so connected they blended into one, but weren't one, existing in separate bodies. Like him, with his canyoned fingerprints to warn others that under his skin, he was Stiles, he was himself. These scents leaked from inside of bodies and gave the same warning. Here lies a person. A world of thought and perspective that was hard to touch, and harder to share. But everyone shared their scents, and let them mingle to share their world. Like they weren't afraid. It reminded him of a solar system.

 

It reminded him of a solar system. Of the stars up above.

 

He found one scent that clashed with a solar system, more like a burning sun than just another world. It stayed separate and distinct from the blending. It was delicious but painful; loyalty and the need to give joy and protection to combat the ache and the guilt and mourning. It pulled at him, so unique from himself that he could recognize it, but so close to himself that he felt it was a part of him already. That was the scent Stiles followed. It pulled him into its gravity.

 

He found a lake where the scent disappeared into. The water was beautiful, crystalline. It reflected the world in its ephemeral mirror, with none of its own swirling patterns but the ones already in the sky. Here was where earth and heaven met, Stiles was sure of it. And in it was the man who belonged to the scent.

 

He was as damaged and heartbreakingly beautiful as his shared scent. Stiles watched him floating on his back in the middle of the lake, arms and legs spread wide to keep afloat. Stiles could see the shadows of his face, the darkness of his hair. The sculpted nature of his torse, with the water filling the little dips and hollows between muscles. He could see the softness of his cock floating on the surface between open, hairy legs.

 

Derek.

 

As he watched, frozen by the edge of the lake out in the open, Derek turned his head. He looked at Stiles over the surface of the water, sending little ripples across the perfect world. His eyes glowed red, making red sun beams dances across the ripples and shoot towards Stiles, breaking the perfect reflection of the sky, shining like the tail of a comment.

 

Stiles wanted. He'd never wanted anything more. It consumed him, left him broken inside. He was nothing, he realized, but flesh. Bones. SKin. Soul. Flaws. Nothing more. And in the water was a broken man who called to him.

 

Derek's eyes burned. Pain hidden behind a beautiful glow.

 

Stiles, without breaking eye contact, took off his shirt. He unbuttoned the top of top his pants. He let the heavy fabric pool at his feet before kicking it away. It hit the water and created gentle ripples of its own. The perfect temporary world changed as trees spoke above, interrupting the perfectly controlled world Derek floated in and made his eyes shine across the surface towards Stiles.

 

Stiles showed Derek his own pain--as hidden as Derek's--as he stood naked by the water. He wondered what their scents would mesh together, wondered if they would blend like a huge red dwarf star, ready to consume everything in its gravity by taking it in. Or maybe if their scents shared, they would mellow and blur with the world around it, becoming just another beautiful plant to share and create life.

 

Stiles didn't move as burning eyes watched him.

 

He didn't move to enter Derek's reflective world until the softness between the man's spread and floating legs was as needy as Stiles', until it curved up towards his belly in heaviness. Then and only then did Stiles take a step into the water. The coldness of the water shocked him, made him realize that yes, this was real, but it was going to hurt. Whatever made it so Derek was able to receive him--lust, maybe his own drug-induced thoughts--was going to fade in the morning and leave a prickling numbness on Stile's body. But he didn't care right now. He kept walking into the water, destroying the surface of Derek's perfect world.

 

They met halfway, where the lake was still shallow enough to walk in.

 

His skin was smooth where hair wasn't covering him. Stiles danced his fingers around it, entranced. The membrane under his skin was alive and dancing, he could stare at it for hours--

 

Derek's growl was strong and needy. Without warning, he grabbed Stiles by the hair and shoved his face forward. It was all teeth, at first, but when Stiles stopped fighting it, he found Derek's tongue was soft and velvety and demanding. Stiles cling to him, throwing his legs up around the man's waist and getting lost in deep, long licks. Hands--huge, warm hands--found his asscheeks and started squeezing in a way that had Stiles moaning around both of their tongues.

 

He kept going until his chest ache from the lack of breath, scared that it would end once their mouths parted. But he had to pull back. He grabbed Derek's tongue with his lips and sucking until their faces were separated and inches apart. Hands were still gently needing him, and he felt hot and cold at the same time, high and totally sober, thoughtless.

 

Derek opened his mouth like he was going to speak--and no, no. That signaled the end. That signaled rationalizing. So Stiles did the first thing that came to his blank mind, and he shoved Derek backward with both hands. Startled, Derek dropped him with a great splash, and both of them were left apart, gasping and confused. Derek stared at him with sad, angry red-eyes.

 

Stiles knew only one thing. Talking would ruin this. Talking would bring him back down to Earth and he'd have to realizing how totally out of his league Derek was--how unavailable. Stiles had pussy-footed around Lydia, giving her the option to reject him by never giving them an option. And Stiles didn't want that with Derek, wouldn't allow Derek to realize what Stiles wanted and never admit to it till it was morphed and changed into something simple and easier to swallow. Not now. Not with how much need was filling his body and how hard he was. Derek was going to have to make a choice. Take him or reject him. Consiquences be damned until the sun lifted into the sky.

 

He threw his head back, watching Derek's attention fall to his neck. A needy growl escaped his throat, and then Stiles ran. Well, tried to run. The water was up to his chest and moving was hard--but that wasn't the point. In seconds he could hear Derek trying to rush through the water, too. And the huge, wonderful hands were grabbing his chest and finding his nipples to tweak. It made him moan, giving up the chase in favor of falling into a hairy chest. He ground his ass up against the hard cock he could feel--just enjoying what it felt like to have his body moving against another.

 

The hands grabbed his waist. They maneuvered him till he faced Derek again, and while a mouth aggressively attacked his, he was being hauled back up and carried through the water. They landed on the grassy, muddy shore with a wet slick sound, and then Derek's mouth was leaving his to trail hot kisses across his neck, his collarbone, his sternum. Without a word between either one of them, Derek showed his own need. His own desire to have this. He grabbed Stile's dick between two soft, already ruined lips and started sucking--

 

"Oh, yeah." Okay--so maybe some talking was good. He couldn't stop the incessant moans from escaping his throat. COuldn't stop the babbling or the 'oh god oh god's as Derek teased his head for a bit, then licked up and down his length sending chills across his legs and chest. Then, in one shocking motion, Stiles was surrounded by warm sucking heat. He screamed, literally screamed, as the aggressive bobbing got him to that edge quicker than he'd ever been before. It was going to be embarrassing--

 

Until suddenly, without warning, it was over. Stiles blinked down at Derek's head, resting between his open legs, not even bothering to blink back tears. Derek's red eyes gazed up at him, a challenge that Stiles couldn't read quite well enough now that the lust was clogging his mind. "Don't cum," Derek growled. "Not till I say. Do that for me."

 

And...and yeah, yeah Stiles could do that for him. With a shaky nod, Derek turned back towards him, sucking and sucking and then licking and then twisting and doing something delightful with his mouth that Stiles had no name for but caused stars to burst behind his eyes and his legs to cramp up with the effort in holding back what he knew was just under his skin, waiting. The sounds he was making were getting truly embarrassing. At some point in time he's aware of Derek's hands pinning his own to his side, so he wouldn't grab at Derek's hair--but it was all secondary to the need that was building and building and building.

 

When it stopped, Stiles cried out in relief, literally crying a bit, before a strong, warm hand was reaching under his balls, tickling his perineum, and circling around the puckered hole of his ass. "Ohh-fuck-fuck-god I want you to fuck me so bad right now. I want you to just bend me over and ram into me and use me and fill me and--" Derek's mouth found his, and suddenly Stiles was getting a bit of fucking, if only with a tongue. He imagined that talented tongue around his asshole, where the dry finger was gently teasing him as Derek's mouth demanded of him.

 

When Derek pulled away, his glowing eyes met Stiles. "Cum." He said, at the same time the teasing finger gently pressed into his asshole and--and Stiles saw stars. He felt relief like he'd never known relief to be. It was almost painful it was so good, his back arching, his balls crushing inwards, his ass trying to both take and reject the new, dry object inside of it. He was silent for it all, airless until suddenly it was over and the golden waves of it were crashing against him. He was weirdly tired, exhausted, and he could do nothing but watch as Derek got onto his knees and started to stroke himself up and down. Stiles took in how he was doing it, how his hand lay, and how he twisted his wrist just as he got to the tip, and how his grip tightened at the base--just to know what he needed to do for next time, or to cement it all in the wank bank, before looking up into Derek's eyes.

 

Derek snarled, long and low and deep and satisfied. "Good boy, my good boy." Derek rumbled, and in seconds hot, shocking drips of cum were all over Stiles' chest. And then Derek was plopping down next to him, far enough away that their shoulders barely touched as they lay on their backs in the mud and felt those golden waves crash in.

 

Above--the sky was starting to lighten into a low, beautiful blue that washed away the patterns of the night. The sun was coming.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When it comes to psychedelics, every trip is different. I took this from my first trip when I went camping with my gf. It was a pretty fantastic night. I even sprained my ankle getting back to where we were camping and couldn't stop laughing about it the whole time.
> 
> I feel like I need to write a WARNING or a DISCLAIMER. Psychedelics are a great spiritual drug that opens up the mind and lets you experience things you'd never experience otherwise, but DO NOT take them when your headspace is in a bad spot. If I had been Stiles and Scott I would have never taken cid when I was so stressed--the trip would have been awful. Always--always--know what you're taking, what strand it is, and how much you're ingesting into your body. Never keep it on you if you're planning on getting wet, and if you actually start to see real visual hallucinations like a dragon or someone turning into something, immediately get to the hospital. You're supposed to think weird thoughts and see patterns, not imaginary things. And getting in trouble for taking a drug is way better than ruining your mind


End file.
